I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
by Erik's Dark Lullaby
Summary: EC Erik is dead. Christine returns to the Opera to keep her promise to take care of Erik's body, but the phantom is quite alive, and quite desperate to keep her with him forever. When all hope seems lost, will one man risk everything for love?
1. Shattered Dreams

**Mmkay, so I decided to revise my chapters so I can become familiar with my story once again. You know, just changing a few things and correcting some problems...this way I can continue without being too rusty. The chapters will apparently be slightly off for a while, because decided to welcome me back by deleting my first chapter instead of just replacing it. Woohoo! Bear with me.

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**Chapter One: Shattered Dreams**

Dreams are the key to the freedom of the mind. Days go by, bringing struggles, strife, and pain, but in the night dreams swoop down on silent wings to bear the soul away from the prison of life…for a time. For, like all things sweet and sacred, there always comes an end to paradise and a return to the confines of harsh reality.

In the Chagny estate, the end of dreams was a common occurrence. Morning after morning dawned on the rich mansion, waking the inhabitants to a new day. And every new day Christine Daae's delicate dreams were shattered into thousands of tiny fragments by the realization of her position.

It had been precisely six months, two weeks, and five days since her greatest dream had ended. Torn from the life she knew of singing and dancing at the Paris Opera House, she was thrust into the nightmare of being forced to choose between her childhood love and a captivating fallen angel. Her momentary indecision and rash conclusion had ultimately led to the end of her thoughts of freedom and happiness.

Raoul, her childhood sweetheart, had whisked her away from the dark and chilling depths of the Opera's cellars just before an angry mob of concerned and justifiably irate citizens had poured into the Phantom's secret lair. Christine had suddenly found herself in the bright and open air of the world above ground. Her fears had anxieties had melted away like shadows in the sunlight and she allowed herself to slip into a state of blissful, and ignorant, happiness. Here, in the Chagny estate, she could forget about her confusion and painful emotions….or so she once was able to.

"Christine, did you hear what I just said?" Raoul's voice cut through Christine's waking dreams in a slightly exasperated tone.

Christine shook herself from her thoughts with a visible start. "I-I'm sorry…what did you say?"

"I asked if you slept well last night," he said patiently, although his attention to his morning breakfast before him betrayed his true indifference to the idle chatter he was trying to pursue. Raoul didn't even attempt to meet her eyes, instead concentrating on the eggs and bacon on his plate.

"Yes, thank you," Christine responded automatically and tersely.

She was more than used to the routine: Raoul, who was often called away on business and social matters, always made a point to eat meals with Christine, his fiancée. As if reading from a script and performing in a mundane play, Raoul and Christine exchanged pleasantries and small smiles throughout the meal, only to separate soon after and go about their respective business.

Christine pushed the eggs around her plate with her delicate fork, deep in thought. Her business these days consisted entirely of playing the part of an upper class woman, a role sorely lacking in the grand excitement and rush of euphoria she was accustomed to as a singer in the Opera. In a cruel twist of fate, her station now was the exact opposite of what she once was – once a performer, privy to the mysteries and wonders of the arts, now an observer, painfully disconnected from all she had known. She now was cast in the role as the impending Vicomtess de Chagny, which required her to attend starched social events and otherwise limited her to entertaining herself at home. Raoul, her fiancé, was more than happy to oblige in outlining what was expected of Christine.

"Christine," he had said, unable to hide the condescending undertone to the smile on his handsome face, "Now that you are my fiancée, it's best that you learn how you are expected to act. And this begins with no more of this silly singing at the opera. You no longer need to work for a living. It's unseemly for a woman of your station, my love." That is apparently how dreams shatter: with a smile.

While still standing in the wreckage of her dreams, Christine was informed that proper behavior for a woman of her soon-to-be status included shopping, chatting over tea with friends, and pursuing titillating hobbies such as cross-stitch or embroidery. Somehow that concept did not appeal to Christine, who longed for the way her heart raced when she entered the stage, the way all eyes traveled from the chorus and ballerinas to rest on her when she prepared to perform one of her soul-stirring solos. Vividly she remembered the cheers and applause of the crowds, the standing ovations, the towering bouquets of flowers from admirers of her voice that miraculously appeared in her room following her performances. And certain singular roses, perfect and stunning in their simple beauty, tied with sleek black ribbons….

Her fiancée had been certain to quickly inform her of the rules of his household regarding the sender of those curious roses. Upon directing the unpacking of her belongings and generally settling into her new rooms, Christine had been caught singing snatches of a song that her mysterious musical instructor had taught her.

"My love, let's not hear anymore of that," Raoul had interrupted swiftly, his clenched jaw muffling the words and giving them a slight edge. "I've taken you away from that heinous monster and the nightmare he plunged you into, so don't be bothered with him any longer." He smiled tightly, but lovingly.

"But Raoul, it was only a song that the Ang--" she had idly begun to explain, her mind upon directing the servants still, only to be cut short.

"THERE IS NO ANGEL OF MUSIC!" Raoul de Chagny's sudden and violent outburst had thundered through the relative silence of the room. The servants had stopped in their tracks as if suddenly frozen in stone, some still clutching dresses or boxes, but all staring wide-eyed at their master. Christine had been the cause of the only movement in the room; she had begun to tremble, chestnut colored eyes large with terror. Raoul had closed his blue eyes, taking a few deep breaths through flaring nostrils to compose himself.

"Let's hear no more of this again, Little Lotte," he had said with finality and a comforting smile.

Her ivory cheeks flushing with embarrassment and anger at the mere memory of the confrontation, Christine reached over and unfolded a newspaper lying on the table, attempting to hide her thought-provoked show of emotion from her unsuspecting fiancé.

She had been, in an unspoken taboo, forbidden to sing, forbidden to speak of her misguided angel…slowly Christine had realized in accepting Raoul's offer for marriage she had in essence been forbidden to be free. Although the first few months of her new life with Raoul had been filled with blissful happiness and laughter, they did not remain so. Over time, Raoul had apparently assured himself Christine was, in fact, not on the verge of being stolen by some specter or persuaded against her will to leave him. This epiphany had led to the end of the illusion. He no longer was forced to vie for the attention of his beautiful fiancée, so he began to treat her as he now viewed her: one of his permanent possessions. And what a lovely trophy she made. With the battle fought and his prize secured, Christine had come to understand that Raoul had only to wait until the day of their wedding to completely regard her as another of the fancy furnishings of his estate. She was no longer the damsel in distress, needing a knight in shining armor, and without that element of heroics, Raoul seemed to have lost his fervent interest in her. And yet, even with this knowledge, she stayed.

She loved him; Christine knew that ever since they spent their early years together and it was confirmed by the pounding of her heart when she had been reunited with him at the Opera House. But over the months since her flight from the Opera she had discovered a crucial difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. Christine, young as she was, was still only learning the ways of the heart, and had discovered too late that her relationship with her childhood friend held no enchantment for her.

Eyes roaming the pages of the paper while not actually reading anything in particular, Christine blushed a deeper shade of crimson when she thought of who did indeed captivate her heart – with the allure of music. Mentally checking herself, Christine quickly pushed him from her thoughts. Music held no part in her life anymore, and neither did he. Why should she torment herself with thoughts of someone she could only see in her dreams? Besides, she had caused him more than enough anguish with her foolish and offensive rejection of his professed love.

Mechanically Christine took a forkful of the eggs she had been unconsciously mangling, chewing them without tasting while her eyes scanned the print of the paper. She smiled casually as a memory resurfaced, triggered by her perusing of the newspaper. Raoul had gone so far as to suggest once that books of poetry and romance would be better suited for a lady of her status, but Christine had put her foot down and insisted upon retaining at least this one connection to the outside world. The newspaper was her last feeble link to the world she had known – the world she was no longer allowed to freely traverse – and Christine was loath to relinquish it at the request of her fiancé, even if sometimes she only used it as a shield to hide her emotions at the table.

"And so I told him the mere thought of that was preposterous, and to even suggest that to his superiors would be the end of his career..." Raoul droned on between bites as he ate, clearly trying to fill the silence with words, mundane as they were. God, how she wished he would grasp how awkward this idle banter was and give up. She would at least settle for no babbling.

Her chocolate eyes returned to the newsprint. Sputtering and choking, Christine suddenly dropped the paper. Her silver fork clattered to the table noisily and she overturned her plate in her haste to bring her hand to her throat. Silence reigned, broken only by Christine's intermittent coughs and gasps for breath.

"Christine?" Raoul asked with a raised eyebrow from his place across the table, quite stunned by her spontaneous coughing fit. And yet he was not bothered enough to rise to help her, she noticed in a detached manner. Clearly he believed her choking spell would teach her to more properly chew her food. "Are you alright?" The clatter of the dish, the coughing, and the inquiry from Raoul had summoned a young servant girl who industriously began to clean up the mess. Her master paid no attention to her, which was only a little less than the detached concern he held for his afflicted fiancée.

Christine only nodded in reply, brushing her brunette curls away from her face with slender fingers; her coughing was under control, although she still gasped for breath and her eyes watered painfully. But she was not alright. Her wandering eyes had just skimmed over the obituaries of the _L'Epoque_. Three simple words had succeeded in filling her lungs and almost stopping her heart: "Erik is dead."


	2. The Trap Is Set

**Chapter Two: The Trap is Set**

Christine stood abruptly, almost toppling the chair over in her haste to rise.

"P-please excuse me…I-I feel rather sick," she stammered through pale lips, looking everywhere but at the newspaper.

"Of course, I hope you-" Raoul began diplomatically, but Christine was already hurrying off, her ornate yellow dress sweeping the marble floors softly. Her fiancé stared after her with wide blue eyes before shrugging dismissively to himself and resuming his meal.

She needed time to think.

Christine paced her room, her heart pounding rhythms against her ribs. Her soft silken shoes made no sound on the marble, and the whisper of her skirt was the only sound in the room. But in Christine's head voices raged in conflict.

_Oh Erik, my angel! How could this have happened?_

_But was that even _your_ Erik? Who is to say that another Erik does not exist in Paris? It's not as if they printed a full name in the paper._

_Then again, it's not as if you _know_ his full name._

This was the moment she had most been dreading since she had been beseeched to care for Erik's body when he died. He had looked her in the eyes, his golden orbs alight with some hidden emotion.

"Christine…I know you will not stay with me forever. I cannot ask you, an angel, to stay in this…this _hell_," he had spat out the last word with disgust, "but I ask only one thing of you. Since you cannot be with me in life, I beg you…please be my aid in death. When I die, as I undoubtedly shall when my beautiful music leaves me, please come back and find me."

He had taken her hand with his cool, long fingers, cradling her smaller hand in his fervently. Erik had bent his dark head gravely to look at her delicate hand as he gently ran his fingers over hers.

"I-I don't…" he had paused, his melodic voice breaking with emotion, "I don't want to remain in this hell for eternity." A single tear had dropped onto their joined hands, striking a chord in Christine's charitable heart.

Christine did not fully understand the words when he had spoken them, but she had agreed, deeply touched by his show of emotion. But realization dawned on her now, causing her to feel weak. Christine sat down hard on her bed.

She was his music, and she had left him alone and cold in his dark hell.

The least she could do was keep her promise.

XXXXXXX

He stared blankly at the food in front of him. Vaguely he wondered why he even bothered to continue to buy it. Eating no longer held any pleasure; it was simply not the type of nourishment he so craved. Not that he precisely needed to eat regularly; he had gone for long periods of time sustained only by creativity and musical inspiration. He had survived then. He could survive now. Not that he in fact wanted to survive at the moment. Not that he in fact should be alive.

Pushing his untouched, meager meal aside with a sneer, he placed his arms on the table and propped his weary head in his long hands. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, feeling the resulting hollowness as the air rushed from his lungs and past his lips. For a few moments he allowed a dim fog to blanket his mind, cloaking his thoughts and bringing a manner of unconscious peace. When he had finally attained a state close to serenity, a nagging thought suddenly pierced this veil of unawareness like a hot knife.

_Oh angel, how fallen you are! _A voice in his mind taunted him with a hint of a derisive laugh.

Standing up with a rumbling growl emanating from deep in his chest, he began to fitfully pace his underground prison with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His black leather boots, scuffed and faded, clicked out rhythmic staccato notes on the rock beneath his feet.

_Why do you delight in tormenting yourself?_ The voice in his head asked, slippery like oil in its soothing tone. _Why not just end it all, here and now?_

The man spun to glance at the table with cat-like fluidity to his movements, causing his tattered and torn cape to whirl around him and embrace his skeletal body. The golden eyes behind his silken black mask glinted in the candlelight as they came to rest on his tool of salvation. Dull and blurred vision snapped into focus – his first moment of clarity in a long time. A knife lay next to his discarded plate of food. Eyeing it hungrily, as if it were his soul's desire, he tentatively stepped over to once again stand near the carved wooden table. He slowly picked up the knife and turned it, watching how the candlelight danced along the blade. Dimly he wondered what it would feel like to die….

Shaking this thought from his mind angrily, he hurled the knife away with a snarl. It clattered to the floor and skittered away to reside in a darkened corner of the room. His slender fingers shook uncontrollably, and he ran them fitfully through his unkempt hair.

He didn't have the courage to die. But he didn't have the courage to live alone either. He could not learn to live in his solitude, the lone prince of his personal hell, once he had tasted the joys of heaven.

He needed her, but he did not have her. He could have her, but he would hate himself for it – but there was never actually any other decision he could reach. All he could do now was curse himself for his impending deceitfulness and wait.

_Go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey_…Ah, the bitter irony.

XXXXXXX

After a few hours of numbness where she sat on the downy bed, almost unblinking, staring into the gas lamp on the wall, Christine finally managed to rouse herself enough to recognize she needed to begin her preparations. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew her unsavory business was best handled as soon as possible. Quickly standing, she had to grasp the bedpost to keep her balance. Christine's lack of breakfast had left her feeling rather lightheaded and her vision swam momentarily, but the furnishings of her room soon stopped their obnoxious twirling. She would simply grab something to eat along the way to the Opera House.

Brushing a stray curl from her face, she strode to the wardrobe, running her hands along the smoothly polished cherry wood before opening the doors. Shuffling through the exquisitely ornate dresses she found within, she forcefully pushed them aside. It wouldn't do to wear a bright, bejeweled gown to perform the task she was obliged to do. Towards the back of the wardrobe, hidden beneath piles of slippers, she found some of the dresses that she had managed to retain, even against Raoul's urgings to be rid of such simple clothing. Settling on a dark grey dress with only a little lace along the bodice and sleeves, she swiftly changed into it – or as swiftly as she could. The dresses she had been coerced into wearing for the past months happened to be as hard to get out of as to get into.

Fumbling with the myriad lacings up the back of her yellow gown, Christine cursed quietly under her breath.

_That's not very lady-like_, a condescending voice in her head pointed out. Her rosebud lips curled in a wry smile; she could just imagine the speech she would receive if her fiancé heard her. Raoul would most likely begin by sighing in his irritating manner and fixing her with a patronizing smile before scolding her as if she were a disobedient child.

She wondered suddenly if Raoul would expand his vocabulary if he were forced to wear such infuriating clothing. _Perhaps if he knew the suffering I undergo every day just to please him he would appreciate my presence more…_

Her overtaxed mind conjured an image of Raoul in a frilled and laced dress and hysterical laughter bubbled past her lips. She quickly cut it off, for it sounded strained and false, only proving to jar her nerves further.

Shaking her head, she finished donning the grey dress. _Christine, concentrate! There are more pressing issues at hand besides your wardrobe!_

Growing somber with the thought of her departed angel – for she no longer felt guilty to refer to him as such – Christine gathered a few more simple dresses and laid them upon her bed. She retrieved a simple travel bag from the bottom of her wardrobe and returned to the bed to pack her clothing. As she leaned over the dresses, mechanically folding them and placing them within the bag, she felt something warm and wet fall onto her hand. Pausing and glancing down curiously, she beheld a tiny splatter of water on her cream colored skin. Christine brought her slender fingers up to her cheek and noticed that another droplet had just escaped the corner of her eye to rest on her soft skin. She was crying.

Her knees buckled. She numbly felt herself to fall into a sitting position on the floor, her skirts pooling around her. She placed her face in her hands and finally permitted herself to accept the emotions she had been stoically fighting the whole morning.

Her angel, her love, was dead.


	3. A Lying Letter

**Moving right along...yay for revision!

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Chapter Three: A Lying Letter**

After winning the struggle to compose herself and finishing her packing, Christine dared to venture down the marble staircase once more, white knuckles clutching her bag. Imposing portraits of the Chagny family lined the walls flanking the staircase. She met their dead gaze hesitantly, feeling as though they could see her intentions and glared at her accusingly for the actions she planned to take.

Raoul had strictly forbidden her from ever attending the Opera without him again. The mob had undoubtedly chased the Phantom from the safety of his haven like hounds flushing out a fox; police regularly patrolled the cellars and stood watch at the doors of the magnificent building; however, Raoul still believed the labyrinthine Opera House more than capable of concealing a rouge ghost. Christine blushed slightly in embarrassment as she remembered how he insisted on following her to the restroom and standing guard outside the door, as if the phantom would seize her while she relieved herself.

Though she had been unquestionably prohibited from doing so, Christine would once again dive deep into the bowels of the Opera to see her angel one last time.

She only needed a cover plan.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Visibly shaking from nerves, Christine combed the whole house looking for her fiancé. Although she had not bothered to ascertain the time, a quick peek into the dining room told her it wasn't yet occasion for the evening meal. The table was cleared except for a vase of fresh flowers and the nearby kitchen was quiet. She hesitated. If it was not meal time, Raoul would likely have left on business. _He's rather like a dog…only bothering to show up to eat_, she thought wryly.

To be safe, Christine searched the rest of Raoul's usual haunts anyway. _Or as usual as they can be with Raoul only being home a few hours each day_, she corrected herself. Christine's feeling of empty loneliness was regularly echoed in the silent estate. She would have been content to amuse herself with conversing with the servants, but although Christine had attempted to strike up friendships with the girls, their detached servility denied her any real pleasure. Many a day Christine had yearned for the conversation and company Raoul could provide; however, she couldn't begrudge him his absences. She knew the Chagny family had a reputation to uphold, and Raoul's presence at both business and social events was required of his station; all the same, she couldn't help but feel abominably alone and trapped in his mansion.

Her search coming up without any result, she padded softly into the library, wondering if he had left some hint of where he had gone on his desk – an opened letter or invitation, perhaps.

Setting her overstuffed bag down at the doorway, Christine glanced around the room. A light was almost always kept burning on Raoul's desk, and with its light thick volumes could be seen lining the shelves along the walls, almost entirely covering them, although they were more for appearance than use – old tomes passed down through the family, most outdated and dusty, but in admirable condition otherwise.

Realizing his absences would likely lead to boredom for his Little Lotte, Raoul had given a small section of books to Christine for her perusal. Their brightly gilded spines caught the light and shimmered as Christine passed them. Frivolous titles shone in gold on colorful binding, proving the books to be mostly romantic poetry – pretty words, but nothing to captivate her mind for more than moments. _Ornamental books for an ornamental wife_, she couldn't help but smile bitterly.

Realizing her mind was grasping at any subject but the task at hand, Christine shook herself mentally and advanced purposefully to the heavy desk occupying a corner of the room. Christine's eyes roamed over the papers scattered haphazardly over the mahogany surface. Carefully shuffling through them with deft fingers, attempting not to move them in case Raoul somehow could see method in the madness and notice their displacement, Christine found nothing that would hint at her fiancé's whereabouts.

Her hand came to rest on some clean sheets of paper. The thick, unused parchment beneath the pads of her fingers begged to be used, and suddenly she made her decision. Christine swept her skirts to the side as she sat down gracefully and slid over sheet of parchment and a pen. _This will be easier anyway_, she assured herself. _This way I can avoid having to lie…too much. And I won't betray my emotions in my face or voice._

Thinking for a moment, she tapped the pen against her lips, unconsciously leaving a small black smudge in its wake. Feeling the ink on her lower lip, she pulled a lace handkerchief from her bodice and wiped it away absently, ruining the pristine fabric. Finally she nodded to herself and began to write:

_Dearest Raoul,_

_I apologize for only leaving you a letter, but I fear I cannot await your return before beginning my journey if I am to arrive before nightfall. Forgive me my girlish whims, but you certainly recall my distaste for traveling at night._

_I know I am fickle, but I assure you my impromptu trip is not pure folly. Recently I have found myself feeling uncertain and confused as to the worthiness of myself for you _(She had to chuckle at that. It wasn't a lie.) _and I wish to clear my head and ready my heart for our impending marriage. I am traveling to visit my dearest friend, little Meg, who will undoubtedly shed light on the purity of my feelings for you and banish my doubts like the wicked shadows they are. I will return to you a new woman, ready for the honor of being your fiancée._

_All my love,_

_Christine_

Finishing, she held it back and read it a few times, her eyes quickly scanning her neat script. _That will have to do_, she thought with a shrug to herself. It was vague and sounded suspicious in her mind, but at least it did not betray her true intentions in the least.

Leaving the note on a cleared area on the desk, where he would be sure to find it, she retrieved her bag, swung a cloak about her slender shoulders, and went to call a servant to ready the carriage.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The carriage rocked slightly as it bumped down the road. Only a half hour after beginning her trip, Christine's coach had been plunged into semi-darkness as angry, rumbling clouds blanketed the sky, bringing premature nightfall. Her mood matched the clouds; inner turmoil raged within her calm exterior.

She had cried bitterly over Erik's passing. Her body had been wracked with heavy sobs, and she had felt as if her world was crumbling around her. The emptiness she had been previously consumed with had been suddenly and painfully filled by the most heart-rending guilt.

Erik had been the only one there for her over those lonely years, helping to fill the gaping hole that her father's death had left in her heart. At first, even though she was a young child, Christine had preferred the oblivion of death to life without her father. She had no family to cling to, no home to stay in, and no will to live on. Erik had stretched forth his hand and offered her a reason to live: music. His music had soothed her childhood tears, lulled her into pleasant sleep, and given her the will to go on. The moment she regained her feet, he was gone as mysteriously as he had arrived. Later, when Christine began to blossom into the beautiful woman she would become, Erik had come again to her to teach her the heavenly art of song, tutoring her untrained voice and shaping it into an instrument to rival that of the angels. He was her Angel of Music.

But he was also a deceiving devil. He had misled her to believe him the fabled Angel of Music, hearing her prayers to her father and using them to tie Christine to himself forever. He manipulated her like a puppet master, pulling her strings so gently she hardly knew she did not move of her own accord, acquiring her undying trust and taking advantage of her innocence and circumstances to make her dance to his liking. _He preyed upon my loss, using my father's death as a way to reach me, to bind me to him and claim me forever!_

An angry tear trickled down her cheek, its heat seeming to sear her skin. Christine brushed it aside crossly. _No more crying_, she reprimanded herself._ You've cried enough, and it doesn't matter what emotions your harbor for him any longer. Erik is dead._

A crack of thunder and the carriage jarring to an unexpected stop brought Christine to draw back the heavy velvet curtains hesitantly and peek out the window. The Paris Opera House, in all its restored grandeur, raised high above her like a monolith. Without waiting for the driver to open the door for her, she impatiently flung it open and climbed gingerly out into the gloomy night. Her bag clutched before her in white-knuckled hands, she stood for a moment, steeling herself for what lay ahead. The air was oppressive and leaden, bearing down on Christine and filling her lungs. The storm promised by the electric crackle in the air made her hair stand on end.

"Mademoiselle? Can I get your bags, perhaps?" the nervous driver had jumped down from his perch and edged towards Christine in a laughable crab-like motion, obviously confused as to what she was staring at so intently.

"No, I can handle it, thank you," she replied automatically, still running her eyes carefully over the great doors before her, taking in every detail. "You may leave."

"Wh-When shall I come back for you, mademoiselle?" the small man asked, removing his floppy hat and twisting it absently in his hands. Christine had never before so ignored the presence of the servants, and the man found it frankly frightening how her eyes had taken on a dull flatness.

"I do not know precisely when I will return, so I shall simply find another carriage to travel home in," she paused, realizing her distant affectation, and fixing the man with a soothing smile.

"Thank you for your troubles."

"No trouble at all, mademoiselle," he said, relaxing slightly. He turned to climb back onto the carriage, pausing to glance back at the slender woman. She had resumed her survey of the Opera House; she looked so small and insignificant before the towering edifice and the fury of the skies. Perhaps he should offer to wait for her anyway? Shrugging in confusion, the man hopped up into his seat and urged the horses forward with a practiced click of his tongue.

The clatter of the horses' shod hooves echoed along the deserted streets before becoming lost in the darkness beyond the streetlamps. Alone now, Christine's eyes roamed along the statues visible on the roof of the Opera. Lightning flashed fitfully, and Christine gasped violently, her heart pounding. Momentarily the light seemed to have been reflected in a pair of golden cat-like eyes peering from behind the carving of Apollo. When the flash subsided, she frantically scanned the roof, her eyes once again adjusting to the darkness. There was nothing there.

_Silly girl, thinking you see the ghost of a ghost_, her mind chided. She knew Erik was dead; nothing to be afraid of.

"I'm not scared," she stated defiantly to the rumbling sky, as if to profess her courage to the heavens.

Although she wasn't scared, another blaze of lightning and the clap of the following thunder caused Christine to jump and skitter inside the heavy doors.

Something shifted in the shadows surrounding Apollo and his lyre.

"Not scared indeed," the owner of the golden eyes chuckled with a smirk.


	4. The Game

**Why does it always seem to storm when I write? I couldn't get this one revised and uploaded for two days because of the weather...I think nature is against me...

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Chapter Four: The Game**

Heavy, fat raindrops began to fall sparsely, picking up speed steadily as the sky began to outpour its sorrow in rumbling growls.

_She had arrived. _A triumphant smirk slowly curled his pale lips, his golden eyes seeming to capture the power of lightning as they flashed in delight.

Erik jumped nimbly from his perch atop Apollo's lyre and landed silently in a half-crouch. Straightening himself and adjusting his cloak around him to ward off the pounding rain, he plunged once again into his playground of mayhem: the Paris Opera House.

Though he knew the winding passages of his labyrinthine domain better than any man alive, he lost himself mentally, reveling in the sudden vivacity that coursed through his corpse of a body. His feet knew the path well, and mechanically he stalked down twists and turns, traveling inexorably downward into the depths of the earth.

Since the loss of his muse, Christine, Erik had fallen into a murky numbness, finding no pleasure in food or music, the two things that sustained his existence. His once smooth cheeks had hollowed and paled, giving him a gaunt and skeletal appearance. Unable to be bothered much with form or fashion, Erik had neglected to keep his once magnificently sharp clothing in top condition, allowing it to fade and fray pitifully. Forgotten and unhealthy habits had reemerged as he sought release in any means available. He rubbed his inner arm unconsciously as he thought of it, wincing slightly.

He had shrunken to half of the man he once was, almost literally. _If I could in fact be dubbed a man and not a demon_, Erik snarled inwardly, the wrongs done unto him in the past stinging like fresh wounds. Then again, had he not in his own way earned the scorn and hatred? Had he not become the demon he was labeled?

Thoughts of his lost and soon to be reclaimed angel brushed through his tortured mind, soothing him from irritation and instilling once more the grim excitement of the hunter.

_She WILL be mine. She's here…and so close I swear I can almost smell her_, his mind buzzed with anticipation, adrenaline coursing through his veins like a drug. Erik knew it was merely a figment of his imagination, but the mere sight of Christine had reawakened his senses to forgotten memories: his fingertips tingled with the brush of her silky curls, the sweet smell of her skin wafted through the corridors, the sparkle of her eyes gleamed before his vision….and the undeniable and throbbing pain she had caused him gripped his heart.

She had been given the gift of his love and she had thrown it away like refuse. It could not have hurt worse if she had stabbed a searing hot knife through his bleeding heart.

_You were the one who offered her that bleeding heart_, he reminded himself.

"This time is different," Erik whispered fervently into the dark, an almost maniacal edge to his words. "This time, the game is in my favor."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Christine stepped forward timidly into the grand entrance of the Opera. The fire damage caused by the infamous hunt of the Phantom had been largely repaired, although the maintenance had been extensive and likely very costly. Familiar statues and paintings stared down at her, but unlike the accusing glares of the portraits at the Chagny estate, these did not indict or persecute. They welcomed her home.

And she was home. Although the Opera was closed for the night and rather empty, the glow of gas lights sparkled off of gilded banisters and busts, emanating a warm luminance that penetrated to Christine's core. Her soft shoes traveled the well-known path leading to the rooms backstage, where she knew the quiet façade of the elegant public rooms would be shattered. She smiled contentedly, memories of the daily hustle and bustle of the Opera performers surfacing in the pool of her mind. _I imagine Madame Giry is hard at work attempting to break the floorboards with her cane and yelling at the ballet rats._

Rather than announce her presence, Christine gave in to her overwhelming desire to see the Opera not as a guest, but as a habitant once more. She tiptoed instinctively, although her soft soles would not have echoed in the grand hall. As she approached the practice rooms, she could tell from the noise issuing from within that her previous assumption was correct.

"Jammes!" A stern voice accompanied by a shocking thump on the floor broke through the trailing sound of the music to which they were practicing. "What on God's green earth do you think you are doing? This is a ballet, not a country square dance! Pick your feet up and cease your shuffling!"

Madame Giry was as quick-tongued and sharp-tempered as Christine remembered. With her black hair pulled back tightly into a bun that seemed to strain her forehead, her precise and imposing posture, and the formidable hammering power of her black cane, she cut a rather frightening picture when enraged.

When not directed to herself, Christine could not help but find humor in the horror Madame Giry's biting remarks could inspire in her flock. She couldn't help but giggle at the nervousness of the other girls, who obviously believed their turn to be berated would soon be at hand.

She stifled her laughter too late.

Spinning around, Madame Giry's keen eyes scoured the ballet rats clustered in front of Christine with an accusing glare. The silence following the sweep of her gaze was accompanied by a collective shiver from the girls under her observation.

"Do you think that was humorous? Do you believe it is acceptable for us to run our ballet as if holding a country festival? We might as well bring in the pigs and sheep while we're at it. From what you have demonstrated, they could likely dance more gracefully than some of you disgraceful girls," she retorted, her voice dripping sarcasm.

The quaking of the young women and their quick professions of innocence prompted Christine to take action. She cleared her throat, pulling Madame Giry's roving eye to her. The ballet rats parted like the Red Sea, leaving Christine standing alone.

"Please excuse me, Madame. I couldn't help but laugh a little when remembering my own clumsy footwork of years past," Christine said with a warm, soft smile and an apologetic bow of her head.

Madame Giry appeared taken aback, which was a surprising and novel appearance for the unshakeable woman, but she swiftly regained her composure.

"Christine?" Madame Giry whispered her name as if not believing her eyes.

Christine dropped her bag with a muffled thump and rushed to embrace the woman, her eyes tearing up as she nodded. "Yes, it's me. It's so wonderful to be back and see this place – my home – again."

Still appearing to be in shock – which for her meant her brow was only marginally creased – Madame Giry returned the embrace, and then held Christine out at arm's length to examine her thoroughly, eyes taking in every minute detail of her appearance.

"You look a little pale. Have you been eating well?" she questioned, her motherly instinct once again arising at the sight of Christine, who had become like a daughter to her over the years. Upon her arrival to the Opera, Christine had been taken under the strict woman's wing. With her help and guidance, Christine had carved out her place in the world of the Opera. She was as much of a mother figure as Christine could claim to have.

"Yes, yes," Christine assured her with a laugh – one of the first true laughs that had passed her lips in many months. It was musical, tinkling like bells with her amusement. For a moment, she managed to forget the reason of her visit and simply enjoyed the feeling of belonging offered to her by the older woman.

"I had hoped you would come to visit," Madame Giry stated, pointedly ignoring the ballet rats who were still stumbling through their forms, moving their positions to accommodate the reunited women. "I suppose you came to visit Meg? She will be thrilled; she saw you once when you came to watch the opera, but told me your fiancé had important business and could not afford to let you stay to socialize." She said the last with an unhidden tinge of scorn to her voice, showing she highly doubted the veracity of Raoul de Chagny's excuse.

Picking up Christine's bag despite her professions of being able to take it herself, the older woman began to lead her young charge toward the dressing rooms and dormitories.

As the two women passed out of sight and the click of Madame Giry's cane resided into the distance, the ballet rats waited a moment, still diligently continuing their practice. After a few moments of silence passed and the ballet instructor was clearly absent, the girls fell as a unit to their rears. An all-encompassing sigh escaped their lips as they rubbed at aching feet. Even the young man they had recently taken on to play piano for the practices gave over his work and massaged overworked hands.

A loud bang sounded from the other room, causing every girl to leap in the air, some tripping and stumbling in their haste to reach their feet. The young pianist fell forward, slamming a hand on the keys and bringing forth a jarring chord.

"Keep practicing!" Madame Giry's voice boomed from down the hallway.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Erik effortlessly tracked Christine down the halls backstage, the cloak of darkness no hindrance to senses accustomed to lack of light. Even with the aid of a candle or lantern, he would not have been able to see his beloved; he traversed hidden passageways parallel to the one Christine and the ballet instructor treaded down. The wall between himself and his prey did not daunt him, however. He could recognize the sound of Christine's delicate footsteps anywhere, and could literally close his eyes and still follow her progress toward little Meg Giry's room.

Stopping when the two women on the other side of the wall reached the little Giry's room, Erik leaned up against the smooth wooden boards separating them, pressed his ear against the wall, and listened. His breathing quickened minutely as he heard the melodious voice of his quarry. Nimbly running his gloved fingers over the wall before him, he sighed hungrily. She was just on the other side, mere inches from him. The sweet scent of her perfume wrapped about him, but he knew it was mere memory rather than an actual sense.

His breathing hitched as he heard the heavenly sound of her laughter. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a taut smile. _So innocent, yet so dangerous…I fear she does not know the effect she has on people, the power of her voice._ Erik's gloved hands clenched, the smooth leather creaking against itself as it tightened; his hands itched with desire to spring the trap that would return the slender, fair-skinned angel to his arms.

_Patience_, he admonished himself wordlessly, squeezing his eyes shut._ Nothing good can come of this if you throw aside your advantage for the mere chance to have her sooner. She will only slip through your fingers. Wait. The time will come, and your prey will walk into the snare of her own will._

But the longer he stood, hiding in shadows and battling the emotions aroused by the proximity of Christine Daae and the prospect of his victory, the more he realized he was no longer processing the words she spoke. He was simply basking in the sound of her tone and allowing himself to become awash with distant memories. He was enchanted, the ghosts of the past resurfaced to torment him, and he found himself distinctly recalling the feeling of her body pressed firmly against his during their last opera…. _Past the point of no return…_

He shook himself from that train of thought with a rumbling snarl. Suddenly remembering where he was - and the need for silence – his hollowed cheeks flushed faintly, anger at his stupidity welling within his chest. Erik spun on his heel, deciding to return to the safety of his lair before he was so _enchanted_ that his mind became befuddled and he alerted them to his position in the shadows. As the sound of Christine faded in the distance, he regained his senses and his predatory caution.

It would not do to be discovered after he had hidden for over six months. Especially when the pieces in his game were all falling into place so beautifully…


	5. Whispers in the Dark

**Another chapter revised during a crazy thunderstorm. Always interesting to write with the thunder booming in the background.

* * *

Chapter Five: Whispers in the Dark**

Walking into the grand entryway of his home, Raoul shook the rain from his cloak. Twirling it from his shoulders and placing it on a hook near the doorway, he glanced around, searching for some sign of his fiancée. He began to venture further into the room, but the squelch of his boots made him flinch. Raoul quickly shucked them off and pulled on a dry pair waiting for him.

"Christine?" he questioned, renewing his search in the dining room, where the smell of a warm meal drew his senses. _She's probably already started eating without me_, he thought gloomily. _I am rather late. I hope she is not too upset with me…_

Only one place was set at the head of the table, the silver cutlery gleaming in the light of candles. A servant emerged from the kitchens carrying a platter of steaming meats and vegetables. She smiled at him warmly and welcomed him home courteously, but without meeting his eyes.

"Where is Christine? Is she not feeling well enough to come and eat?" Raoul asked worriedly, looking in the direction of the stairs and wondering whether he should go see if she was alright. She certainly had seemed to be a bit under the weather this morning, but he had assumed it would pass.

Visibly taken aback at the question, the servant girl blinked her hazel eyes several times at her master, her mouth open a bit in surprise.

Finally she spoke, all the while ringing her apron in her hands, "Y-You don't know, monsieur?"

Looking over his shoulder at the girl, Raoul's eyes flashed icily. "I don't know _what_?" His heart skipped a few beats, his chest constricting with worry that Christine was in fact seriously ill. Irrational fear threatened to overwhelm him as he remembered the doctor who had informed him of his father's passing. _My God, not Christine…_

Some measure of that fear must have spilled into his icy visage. With a small curtsey of apology, the girl spoke up quickly, dragging her eyes once more to the floor, "I'm sorry, monsieur. But she said she left you a note on the desk in the libr-"

Not bothering to listen to the rest, Raoul loped into the library, his mind buzzing. The tension and fright had been replaced by curiosity. _Why would she need to leave me a note? Is she upset with me? And why do the _servants_ know before I do?_

He burst into the room, striding purposefully to the cluttered desk. On top of his business papers and invitations to upper class events there was a small piece of parchment. Snatching it with shaking hands, he held his breath and proceeded to run his eyes over the flowing script.

As he read, he allowed his body to fall into a slouch in his leather chair. _Oh, Christine._ His breath escaped his lips in an unsteady sigh as he ran an idle hand through his golden hair.

_I have driven her to this_, he accused himself, mentally cursing his stupidity. _I should have made time for her. I should have spent every waking moment making sure she knew she made the right choice. How long has she been feeling this way…so uncertain and silent? And I never even bothered to ask her if she was happy…_ Lightning forked a jagged flash across the window, and thunder rumbled soon afterwards, powerful enough to shake the windows; neither affected Raoul, who was lost in thought.

Ever since their frenetic flight from the Opera House, Raoul had taken his promise to guard Christine to heart. When he was with her he kept a constant watchful eye on her, and when he was called away on business, as was the case most days, he left her in the safest place he could imagine: his own estate.

In the beginning, he had brought Christine along to the balls and parties he was obliged to attend. However, anyone could hide amongst the crowds of well-dressed people, especially a man well coursed in the art of deception. Christine was often separated from him by gossiping but good intentioned women, who had no idea how panicked Raoul became the moment he lost sight of his fiancée. Therefore, it was safer for her to stay at home, under the watchful eyes of the servants and away from crowds that could conceal a certain masked gentleman.

Not that Christine actually seemed to enjoy being under the scrutinizing eye of the public. But his love had a wild heart and the need to be free. Like a flower, he had noticed her wilting considerably from being kept from the shining sun and fresh air she was accustomed to. In order to keep her under his wing and far from any harm that might befall her, Raoul had stolen part of her. He had taken away her freedom. _But it was all for her own good._

Pounding his fist on the table and sending his papers toppling to the floor, he cursed himself. _You damned blind fool! You knew she was suffering. You just did not want to admit you could not give her all she needed! Being alone in your home, captive behind these walls…the poor girl has been miserable. And yet you could not give her that freedom – you had to keep her all to yourself, trapped by your insecurities. You are no better than that monster!_

Raoul admitted to being paranoid when it came to the living ghost. Although he had been hesitant to believe in his existence at first, rationality overpowering fear, being captured in the monster's Punjab lasso – which was _quite_ real – certainly did wonders for changing his mind.

_A man that dangerous might as well be a ghost; he has unwavering control over his haunt_, Raoul had told himself, and he had taken precautions even though he had been assured by the police that the Phantom had indeed been chased from the depths of the Opera. Raoul's senses were always strained for any sign of danger. Whenever he went to see an opera with his dearest Christine, he was constantly jumping at shadows that seemed to have burning eyes.

_You were so obsessed with her safety that it turned to madness!_, a voice in his head chided scathingly. He had forbidden her to sing, for every melody that flowed past her beautiful lips was touched by the fiend. What Raoul had not grasped was that her connection to the false Angel of Music was also her last link to her father. Once again, Raoul de Chagny had unknowingly caused his beloved immense pain.

Although they did not share the same room, as propriety dictated they should not, he had been told by several of the servants of Christine's troubled dreams. Often times Christine had woken up crying and calling out her father's name loudly enough to be heard down the hallways. Ever vigilant, the servants had rushed to his room and informed him; however, when he had arrived to comfort Christine, she had remained aloof and detached from him, never explaining her torment.

His lean body trembled and a single tear slid down and smudged the neat handwriting of the note. Numb fingers let the parchment flutter to the desktop. He stared at the flowing script, but his mind was elsewhere.

_You never even bothered to tell her why you did it_, Raoul howled inside._ It's a wonder she has stayed this long without knowing the reason for her captivity! Dear, sweet Christine. She does not wish to hurt you, but anyone could only take so much. You've become the monster you wished to save her from!_

Swiftly he stood and haphazardly folded the note, pushing it into his pocket clumsily. He would simply have to go and find her; if he explained the reasoning behind his madness and professed his love for her – he realized guiltily he hadn't even kissed her in months – then Raoul was certain her gentle heart would forgive his overprotective nature and distant manner.

Rushing to the entryway, he swung his dripping cloak back over his wide shoulders and opened the door. Pulling the hood up to cover his head, he jogged to the carriage house, splashing through puddles recklessly as the rain churned the dark soil into mud.

_Forgive me, Christine…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Oh, Christine! How I've missed you," Meg confessed tearfully the moment her mother left the two young women to converse in peace. Taking Christine's slender hands in her own, she led her friend to sit on the edge of her small bed.

"As I've missed you, dear Meg," Christine smiled, struggling to hold back hot tears of her own, "It seems like it has been forever and a day since I last saw you."

Sniffling softly, Meg wiped away her tears with a sheepish grin.

"Here I am putting a damper on such a joyous occasion. Trust me to make things depressing!" She giggled embarrassedly while she collected herself.

Tilting her head questioningly, Meg narrowed her eyes curiously at Christine.

"Do not think I am complaining, but what brings you here? Especially on a night such as this," Meg said, gesturing around at the windows as they were pummeled by thick, heavy raindrops. Thunder rumbled, shaking the lamps in the room slightly and causing the flames to shiver.

For a moment Christine merely pursed her lips, wondering best how to explain before the sorrow once more overcame her and words would be beyond her. She opened her mouth, but paused for a second before she replied in a soft voice, "Meg, Erik is dead."

The blonde girl blinked a few times. Emotions played in her expressive eyes, vying for the forefront.

"Erik who?" she questioned bluntly, giving Christine a nonplussed stare.

Christine blushed considerably, forgetting that the name held no meaning for her bewildered friend.

"Erik…you know. M-My Angel of Music," her voice broke only faintly as she forced the explanation out. Even that tiny slip angered Christine. _Goodness, Christine! Control yourself!_, she scolded herself. _It will not do to break down in front of poor Meg, who is quite clueless as to who the man even is._

For a minute there was only the sound of rain determinedly pummeling the building as the friends simply stared at one another. Neither seemed willing to speak.

"Christine…" Meg began delicately, her confusion cloaked by another emotion Christine mistook for disbelief.

Christine interrupted smoothly, speaking swiftly due to embarrassment, "I know you do not know what I am talking about, and you probably think me daft for still believing in the Angel of Music, but I swear to you Meg, I rea-"

Meg silenced Christine by gingerly placing her small hand on hers. Their eyes met, Christine's gaze radiating confusion. Meg let her hand rest on Christine's for a moment, offering warmth and comfort.

Silently Meg stood and walked to her vanity, turning her back on the perplexed Christine. Pulling a key from a chain around her neck, she unlocked a drawer and slowly opened it, the wood creaking faintly. Removing something from within, Meg seemed to survey it carefully before turning around and walking back over to sit next to her best friend.

Christine had just reined her passions in and resumed her calm façade. Then her eyes lit upon what was cupped in Meg's hands. Suddenly the room seemed to spin unpleasantly.

In Meg's hands was held a white porcelain mask.

Christine's body began to tremble, her breath coming in soft gasps.

"Meg….wh-where did you…?" she could not form the words, and instead merely looked upon her friend with wide eyes that were welling with tears.

"I found it when the mob…" Meg trailed off with a gesture, "Well, you know."

Christine stayed silent, her eyes drawn inexorably back to the mask. She was at a loss for coherent words.

Meg placed the cold porcelain into Christine's shaking hands with sorrowful eyes.

"My mother told me everything."

Just a few effortless words, but they seemed to lift a huge weight off Christine's chest. She could breathe once more, and a gasping sob escaped her lips.

"Oh, Meg!" she whispered, hot tears squeezing out onto her cheeks and racing down her smooth cheeks as she closed her eyes. She cradled the mask to her bosom gently. _Thank God! She knows...I no longer have to put into words the feelings I do not truly understand myself._

"If he is dead, did you come here to…pay respects?" Meg questioned gently after allowing Christine to gain her composure.

Christine nodded shakily in the affirmative. "He made me promise to…to not leave him lying there in the cellars," she managed in a barely audible whisper.

Glancing at the lamps as the room again shook softly with rolling thunder, Meg frowned, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow." It was a half-question.

"No, Meg. I must do this now, while I still have some of my wits about me," Christine chuckled brokenly and wiped her tears away. The task would become no more appealing with time.

"Then at least allow me to go with you," Meg pleaded. "I never claimed to know the cellars well, but then again _you_ do not know your way around them either."

Doubt entered Christine's mind, and the prospect of being unaccompanied in the darkness of the cellars frightened her, but she shook her head, her curls bouncing.

"I must do this alone. But I will be certain to come back before long, so do not worry about me," she ordered, her confidence growing as she spoke. Perhaps she could do this unsavory deed after all.

Meg sighed, resigned, "In that case, at least take a lamp. I won't have you stumbling around blindly in the gloom."

Rising and retrieving a spare lamp from the shelf, Meg lit it deftly and handed it to Christine. Collecting her best friend in a quick but comforting hug, Meg whispered, "Be careful. And be certain to come and find me if you need help."

"I'm certain I can handle it, Meg," Christine smiled with assurance. "It is not as if there are any ghosts down there."

She managed to only jump a little as a particularly loud clap of thunder shook the very foundation of the Opera House, casting an eerie glow through the windows in the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Moments later, Christine was delving into the depths of the Opera, picking her way cautiously along the myriad passageways. The yellow flame of the lantern flickered fretfully as a draft swooped through the murky hallways, causing shadows to dance along the stone walls. _Interesting how drafts can reach this far underground_, she mused idly, attempting to keep her mind off the task at hand as she pulled her cloak snugly around her slim frame.

The lantern only cast a small pool of light about her, making the darkness beyond even more impenetrable. Every stray stage prop that reared from the blanket of black before her caused her to cringe inside with fear, and once her lantern light glinted off of some bejeweled swords from the production of _Hannibal_, reminding her of certain eyes that glowed like gems in the absence of light.

_No ghosts down here indeed_, she scoffed at her jumpy behavior, although she could not cease it._ You're likely to die of fright before you find him. Or what is left of him._ She shuddered at the notion of adding her corpse to his in some deserted and long-forgotten tunnel.

As the wind swept once more through the abandoned tunnels, it seemed to whisper in her ear, causing her to freeze in horror. _What was that?_

"_Chriiiissstiiiine..._"the wind sighed mournfully, feeling like a cold breath on the nape of her neck. The fine hairs there stood on end as a shiver ran up her spine. Unable to force her stiffened legs to turn around and discover if anything in fact stood behind her, she began to tremble violently.

_Calm, Christine, calm_, she recited in her mind, as if merely thinking of serenity would cease the shaking of her terrified frame. _Nothing is there. It is only a draft. Just a draft! Stop imagining things. _She swallowed hard and convinced herself to resume her search, taking one wobbly step after another.

"_Chrissssstine..._" Thunder boomed dimly, the sound filtering from above and accenting the breathy murmur Christine heard mere centimeters from her left ear.

She dropped her lantern. It rolled away from her with a deafening clatter and the flame sizzled angrily before winking out. Complete and utter darkness pressed upon her like a heavy blanket, suffocating her senses.

Her heart raced in panic, sending blood coursing through her veins in a pounding she was certain must be audible.

After a few moments where Christine merely stood with her eyes closed – as if nothing would be there if she refused to recognize its presence – she managed to bring her unruly quaking somewhat under control. _Surely if anyone was there you would have been confronted by now_, her voice of reason assured her, trying to lull her body back into a state of calm. Her heart finally gave in to the urgings of her mind and slowed somewhat.

For a time she concentrated only on the sound of her breathing, which was audible to her even over the dull rumble of the storm. Her even, calm breaths that whispered in the silence, sending warm waves down the back of her neck…

Her eyes snapped open and she spun around in panic to find herself staring into a pair of eerie golden eyes glinting in the darkness.

Everything dissolved into complete obscurity as she felt her knees give way.


	6. Confrontations

**It rained again today, so I figure that meant I was destined to revise another chapter.

* * *

Chapter Six: Confrontations**

Erik stared dully at Christine's unconscious form, crumpled and limp on the stone floor, with his golden eyes wide with shock. _Well, that was rather easier than expected. _He had to stifle nervous laughter that threatened to overcome him. _I certainly hope she didn't die of fright._

Gingerly tucking the chemical-soaked rag he had planned to subdue Christine with back in his cloak pocket, he noiselessly fell on one knee next to her pale body. Biting the tip of a finger of his black glove, he pulled his hand out in order to place two fingers on the side of her neck. He hesitated momentarily, his bare fingers twitching somewhat. He chewed the glove still hanging from his mouth apprehensively and eyed her thoughtfully before convincing himself to check her pulse. Leaning over Christine, he brushed her hair out of the way and gently pressed his fingers to her exposed neck.

The warmth of her soft skin seemed to burn his frigid fingers, lending them some of her heat, and he reveled in the sensation before industriously resuming his task of checking for a pulse. It was strong and steady, quite a change from the frantic pace it must have upheld moments before. After assuring himself she was still alive and relatively well, Erik settled his hands on the stone floor to either side of her head to support himself as he looked down upon her.

_She looks so angelic…so perfect_, Erik mused as he let his amber eyes wander hungrily over her features. He shifted his weight so his ungloved hand could skim the heated air a hair's breadth from her skin, traveling slowly to her rosy lips – always cautious to never skim her skin. Her warm breath curled out from her slightly parted lips and tickled his fingertips; those lips that just seemed to invite him to…

Christine stirred abruptly, shivering on the cold floor. Gasping, Erik jerked his hand away from her lips and just managed to catch the glove that had been hanging precariously in his mouth before it landed on her face. He blushed self-consciously, wondering embarrassedly what he had been thinking. _Damn it, man! The girl is asleep! If you don't watch where your mind wanders…_

Erik trembled, and not from the cold. He did not want to think along those lines at the moment; he had a plan to finish out that could not be hindered by passion. He mentally walled off his emotions, tucking them aside where they could not cloud his judgment.

Quickly pulling his glove back on, he scooped Christine into his arms and stood effortlessly. Sensing welcome warmth, Christine shifted sleepily in Erik's arms in order to rest closer to his chest. It made his breath catch, and he held it briefly as his heart threatened to leap from his chest. What would he do if she awoke in his arms? He would not be able to reach the rag in his pocket before she cried out. Her scream could send one of the night patrol running.

She did not wake, however. Inhaling erratically, Erik steadied himself and cradled Christine to him like a child. With a whirl of his tattered cloak he turned on his booted heel. Once more he began the journey through the shadows to his haven with his captured prey. He smirked and his eyes flashed through the gloom in triumph. He had won.

XXXXXXXXX

Upon reaching his destination, Erik traversed the winding hallways to the room he had prepared for his quarry…his angel. He relaxed visibly; no one had ever discovered this place; no one ever would; he was safe for now.

Using his booted foot to nudge the door open, he entered the room, surveying it in the semidarkness to assure himself everything was prepared for his beloved. The room was rather spacious, but by no means empty. The bed along the wall identified the room as a bedroom, but the other furnishings varied. A silver-etched mirror stretched the height of the ceiling near a wardrobe of polished light wood. Opposite the mirror was a vanity with a smaller mirror, a delicate chair standing before it; silver brushes and combs lined the surface of the vanity, along with the variety of perfume and makeup Christine regularly used. A plush tall-backed chair of a rich cream color sat opposite a matching settee, with a towering bookshelf on the wall between the two. The shelves stretched the span of the wall, filled with books he had recalled Christine eyeing curiously when she had last been in his home. These of course were new copies of the novels, the pages untouched and crisp and the binding stiff. They were also in a new location, considering the mob had burned everything that he owned and torched the structure to the point of making it dangerous to inhabit.

A growl rumbled from deep in his chest at the memory of the destruction he had discovered in the mob's wake, causing the sleeping woman in his arms to stir and frown faintly in her sleep. Coming back to his senses, he cradled Christine closer, murmuring comforting words in her ear. The anger that raged in his heart abated, but the feeling of loss and violation remained as always.

Walking carefully to the large bed, Erik shifted Christine's slight weight so he could free one hand and pull the silken cream sheets back. He gently placed Christine upon the plump mattress, leaning over her to brush a stray chocolate curl from her face. She mumbled a wordless protest when her body left contact with the heat of his, but she soon settled into the feather pillows with a resigned sigh. When he shifted to remove her slippers, he found his movement arrested by a tension on his shirt. Glancing down curiously, he saw slender fingers clutching the material of his sleeve. With a wry smile pulling at the corner of his pale lips, he carefully took her hand in his, easing her grip on his clothing.

"Temptation to stay with you is the last thing I need, dear angel," Erik found himself whispering, his voice husky with barely-checked emotion. He gently brushed a kiss over her hand before forcing himself to lay it down with more self-control than he believed possible. Her warm skin was such a welcome change from the chill of his underground home, and the prospect of being separated from that heat for even a moment was not in the least appealing.

Resuming his task, he removed her shoes and set them beside the bed. Pausing momentarily, he wondered if he should remove her cloak. _Her sleep will be more peaceful without the cloak tangled around her_, he reasoned. He certainly was not biding his time, attempting to keep himself busy with anything in order to stay with her. He knew all too well that this might be the last intimate moment with Christine he would have in a long while. When sleep left her and she realized his deceit, she would certainly not endure his touch…

The thought pained him, but he willfully forced it to the back of his mind. He would deal with that obstacle when it came. Now was not the time to worry about such things. Erik was determined to impress every minute detail of the moment in his mind.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he lifted her upper body gingerly, supporting her with a tender hand. Unfastening the cloak with the other hand, he eased it out from beneath her and again rested her head on the soft pillows. He folded the cloak and laid it on the foot of the bed. Without the enveloping cloak wrapped around her, it was easy to see her slender form. He tried valiantly to control his gaze and walk away, but his body refused to acknowledge his order. Erik's eyes darkened as they traveled from her delicate collarbone…to her chest as it rose and fell with her gentle breathing… to her narrow waist…

The cool air raised gooseflesh on Christine's bare skin of her arms and chest, and a shiver shook her body. Cursing the blood that raced through his veins and tearing his eyes from her, he pulled the sheets up below her chin. As the sheets trapped and multiplied her body heat, Christine curled up and sighed contentedly in her slumber.

For a moment Erik merely sat there, leaning over Christine and studying her serene expression, fighting down desires long denied. _My angel…_

_Do not think about her. You may have her now, but she will never be truly yours_, his mind taunted.

"I do not need to be reminded of this," he snarled under his breath as he lit a candle on the bedside table – in case Christine awoke and was frightened by the darkness – and forced himself to leave the room, shutting and locking the door behind him quietly.

_Becoming rather adept at lying to myself_, he mused as he braced himself against the comforting solidity of the door and closed his eyes, taking a deep and calming breath.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Pacing his study had not relieved the restless energy Erik had been filled with for hours since he had brought Christine to his home. What time was it? Would she wake soon? Checking his pocket watch for the thousandth time, he reprimanded himself sternly; it was only two in the morning. _The poor girl had been traveling all day and then received quite a shock from you in the cellars. I rather doubt she will be waking for hours._

But how was he expected to bide his time until then? He had attempted reading, but found his mind wandering away from the words before him to the young woman in the room a mere second's walk from where he sat. Playing music held no interest for him. He could only bring himself to idly brush his fingers over the keys of the piano – for the sounds of the organ would have undoubtedly awakened Christine. Sleep certainly would not come at a moment such as this.

Suddenly realizing what a fool he was acting, Erik snorted derisively. _I am no lovesick boy,_ he informed himself._ I will not allow her to destroy my reason. She may sleep all she pleases; it matters little to me. She will still be here when she wakes, and long, long after that_.

Confidence and pride filled him once more as he once again became master of his emotions, and he smiled tightly to himself. Perhaps he would entertain himself at the Opera – once more reveling in the thrill of being a fox in a henhouse. It had been quite some time since he had wreaked havoc there. _And now that they believe me to be dead, they will really have something worth screaming about. Opera ghost, indeed. _Erik chuckled as his smile turned into a smirk.

Walking to his own bedroom, Erik stripped off his cape and vest. Surveying the tattered edges of his wrinkled apparel for the first time, he shook his head with a disgusted frown. It would be difficult to appear imposing and sinister while wearing clothes that looked as if he had slept in them for weeks. How had he allowed himself to fall into such a state of ruin? Rummaging through his wardrobe impatiently, he retrieved a black cape with blood red silk lining, an evening suit of black, a crisp white shirt, and a matching red cravat. Carefully he arranged them on the lush midnight silk of his bed, eyeing the outfit. With a nod of satisfaction and a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, he made his way to the bathroom adjoining his room and opened the door.

He was certain to close the door and lock it even though he knew Christine was not only asleep, but in turn locked in her own bedroom. _I shall need to become used to locking my doors when I allow her to wander freely. I cannot exactly have her happening upon me in the bath._

Turning from the door, Erik found himself faced with a mirror. He strode towards it, lightly tracing his gaunt face in the reflection in wonder. When had he become so haggard looking?

He was not exactly pleased with his common appearance; he had been unable to stand the sight of his unmasked face half a year ago. However, his sorrow upon losing Christine Daae was soon followed by hollow, cold apathy toward everything in life. It had allowed him to tolerate mirrors in his new household, putting to rest old phobias, but it also had been the tool of his decline. Long fingers stroked the edges of his black mask before removing it and setting it on the table. Once again he studied himself.

Erik ran the fingers of his right hand through his already tousled hair with a heavy sigh. Disregarding the disfigured flesh of the right side of his face – as if that could be possible in his eyes – he supposed he could be considered handsome. _Tolerable, at least_, he shrugged inwardly. _Although quite in need of some sleep_, he mentally noted after outlining the dark circles under his eyes with a finger.

Turning from his reflection, he untucked his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the floor lazily. His eyes caught the fading bruises of varying shades in the crook of his arm. Although he had known his decline was rapid and intense, he balked at the reminder of the failing he had embraced.

Snarling, his lean muscles tensed as he clenched his fists. _What have you become? You have entirely lost your focus, too busy wallowing in your misery to do anything but seek solace from you pain in…in _thisHis fingernails dug into his palms, but he ignored the pain.

Taking a deep, even breath, Erik closed his eyes tightly. _But no more. The only misery will be the misery her _fiancé_ feels when he realizes he can no longer have her. I doubt it will hold a candle to the pain he has caused me, but it matters not now. I am master of my fate one more. I have her…Christine…_

Mentally reassured of his victory over his rival and his own physical and mental weaknesses, he prepared a warm bath. He might as well relax while he waited for the confrontation with his undoubtedly confused angel.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Christine moaned as she fought a disconcerting dream. She was a child again, carefree and happy. Her childhood self was playing in the waves in her bare feet, the saltwater lapping about her ankles and making the sand hiss as it crawled back to the sea. Her father was by her side, his trouser legs rolled up to his knees and feet bare as they walked through the softened sand. Little Christine was twirling and dancing around her father as a joyful tune came forth from his violin, trying to walk in his capering footsteps but in vain – the waves erased them, smoothing out the sand as if no one had ever walked upon the shore. Smiling at Christine, her father laughed as the sunset's colors were captured in the waves and brought highlights to his daughter's hair. He leaned forward, tapping her lightly on the nose with his bow as he always did and ceasing his song to whisper to her.

"_Little Lotte, here you are free…Sing for me, my little bird,"_ her father chucked her under the chin playfully before resuming his tune and twirling around, smiling into the sunset.

"_But papa, you know I cannot sing any longer! I should not sing…I must not sing…"_ she replied in a childish pout, kicking the water around her feet in an embarrassed manner.

Frowning, her father lowered his violin questioningly, scratching the stubble at his chin. _"Why, dear Christine? Surely you remember how?"_

"_I cannot." _She insisted.

"_Why, child?"_

"_For the Angel of Music is dead,"_ her childish voice seemed to echo through the dream, the warm waves and sunset of the beach fading into darkness.

XXXXXXXXXX

She awoke in a cold sweat. _Dead…Erik._

Propping herself up with pillows, she rested her back against the headboard, running her hands over her face wearily, her eyes closed securely. The silken covers slipped to her waist. Her hands halted their movement. _Silk? A bed? Where am I?_

Her eyes snapped open, taking in everything at once. The cream colored pillows she leaned against. The matching silk sheets and comforter. The sheer white curtain that enveloped the bed she reclined on. The furnishings of her room and the two doors that were on the walls. Her cloak on the foot of the bed – that was an immense relief, something familiar to anchor herself upon.

Looking up, she saw that the ceiling was painted in a breathtaking mural: billowing clouds of the purest white seemed to catch the golden light of a sunrise. Although she still had no idea where she was, she couldn't help but allow herself to relax, the serenity of the furnishings seeming to soothe her soul and wash away the nervous residue of her dream.

Pulling the curtain aside and sliding out of bed, she walked around the room, running light fingers over everything while she thought. _Why am I here? Where _is_ here?_

Christine attempted to make her mind work out of the calm fog that seemed to envelop it, but she failed miserably. She knew there was something she should remember, but what was it? It was like trying to cup water in her hands; the more she grasped at it, the quicker it slipped away.

She tried one of the doors, turning the silver handle slowly. It was locked. Fearing to find the same with the other door, she swiftly rushed over to it, anxiety overwhelming her once more. Expecting to find herself confined in a locked room, she put a bit too much force on the door as she tried it and staggered into the room when the knob turned.

A well lit bathroom was spread before her. Lips pursed and feeling quite perplexed at not finding any window or door to escape from, she stood straight once more and glanced around for anything to aid her in discovering her whereabouts. A letter rested on the sink, capturing her eye.

There was no name on the envelope, but she deduced that it could only be meant for her. Fumbling with the red seal in her haste to open it, Christine unfolded the letter. _This is familiar… Where have I seen this before?_

Her heart stopped momentarily as her eyes rested on the scrawled writing. Red ink. Memory stirred in her, lifting the veil of sleep. Breathlessly she ran her eyes down the note.

_Dearest Angel,_

_Your goodness and kindness are overwhelming. How could I have ever guessed that you, a creature of light and purity, would keep her deal with a devil such as I? Your devotion to your word is admirable, but in your innocence you could never have known what you have freely walked into. We must all be true to our natures, I suppose: you being forever trusting and I being forever deceitful._

_Forgive me for not meeting you face to face at the moment, but I am loath to burden your delicate senses with my company so soon. I am sure you wish to contemplate your position at the moment._

_I suggest you freshen up, as it is rather late in the day. Everything you need to do so has been provided. The key to your room is in the envelope beside the towels. When you are prepared, we can discuss your situation and future arrangements in person._

_Erik_

Hands shaking uncontrollably, she dropped the envelope. _He's alive. Erik's alive, he isn't dead!_ A cold thrill ran through her, somewhere between relief and fear. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

One truth rang clear in her mind_. I'm trapped._ Her wits blanked as she numbly followed the instructions in the letter.

She would play his game for now.

XXXXXXXXXXX

By the time she was finished bathing and had changed into a well-fitted blue dress that had been provided for her, Christine was fuming with anger.

_How _dare_ he? I trusted him, felt compassion for him, went back to carry out his last wish, and _how_ did he repay me? My "goodness and kindness" were the very weapons he used to lure me here!_

Her cheeks tinged red with emotion; she ripped the envelope open and dumped the silver key into her hand. Storming to the door, she jammed the key in place, turned it, and flung the door open with a bang. Arms crossed beneath her breasts, she stood in the doorway: the very picture of womanly fury.

Erik leaned against the grand organ that lined the wall of the large sitting room Christine had walked into, his eyebrows raised somewhat, but otherwise icily composed. He held a wine glass in his left hand, swirling the dark liquid within it as he idly ran the fingers of his gloved right hand over the keys.

His calm manner and silence entirely unnerved Christine, who stood with her mouth slightly opened, chest heaving with emotion. He simply stood, his lean form impeccably dressed, dark hair slicked back, with a questioning look in his eyes.

There was no doubt in Christine's mind that Erik knew precisely why she was incensed. She waited for him to speak, to defend his actions, to beg her forgiveness – something.

Erik blinked twice at her. Calmly he took a sip of his wine.

"H-How _dare_ you?" Christine finally managed, furious at his detachment. Her eyebrows knitted in anger, tears welling in her eyes. "I trusted you!"

"You 'trusted' me to be dead. From the look on your face, it seems you rather wish I was, actually," The masked man stated evenly, shifting his trim frame to rest against the dark wall behind him. Candlelight flickered in his eyes that hid mysterious, unreadable emotions.

"Yes, I thought you were dead – as you wished me to believe! But little did I know that you were in fact plotting to once again mislead me!" Christine accused, ignoring the fact she was the only one of the two using a raised voice. "Do you simply enjoy playing with my mind? Do my tears of pain bring you satisfaction?"

"_You do not know the meaning of pain!_" he snapped suddenly, golden eyes darkened with fury as he seemed to radiate pure menace.

Christine's eyes widened like saucers and her breath caught in her throat. She trembled uncontrollably in the face of his unpredictable anger.

Erik noticed and winced imperceptibly. _She shakes like a child after a nightmare… Gently, Erik. Gently. Your fury will only fuel her hatred_, he chastised himself.

Setting his wine down atop the organ, he took a tentative step towards her, attempting to adopt another method.

"Oh, Christine…," Erik whispered softly, reaching out his gloved hand to caress her cheek.

Christine cringed and squeezed her eyes shut, shying back as if expecting to be struck. It brought the sting of unshed tears to his eyes. He had not expected her to allow him to touch her, he was merely testing her to form a feeling of the situation, but the rejection still pained him.

Deliberately he stood mere inches before her and stroked her smooth cheek gently. _She thinks I mean to harm her. Poor child…What have I done? But…I need her. She will learn to accept things as they are…to accept me. I will teach her._

Her eyes were still firmly shut, but her trembling had subsided, responding to his caress. Taking her beautiful face in his hands with the utmost of care, so as not to frighten her, he softly pressed his lips to her forehead in a reverent and chaste kiss. His angel's eyes fluttered open as he pulled away slightly to peer down at her.

Erik's breath came out in a shuddering sigh, and for the first time Christine noticed how weary he appeared. Against her better judgment, her fury melted as a wave of sympathy washed over her. _How could my angel be reduced to this corpse…?_

Seeing the pity in her gaze, a lump formed in Erik's throat. Releasing her and turning swiftly away, Erik managed to hide the tear that had slid unbidden down his cheek. All he wanted to say, all he craved to do, would have to wait. He would have to be patient and teach Christine to love him once more. Perhaps if she could pity him, she could learn to love him…

"_Christine, I love you,_" he sang in a whisper, inaudible even in the silence that hung between them.

Erik coughed to clear his throat and swiftly dashed the tear from his cheek. Once again under control, he turned back to Christine, all his imposing air regained. "I am sorry…I must be excused…but you must stay…I need…I need to think…"

Spinning on his heel, he left Christine and retreated to the safety of his room where innocent eyes weren't watching him, full of pity. _Pity for a monster_, he howled inside.


	7. Old Habits Die Hard

**As the chapters get longer, it becomes more time-consuming to revise them. But that's alright! I'll get through them and finally be ready to write the next chapter.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Old Habits Die Hard**

The second hand of the clock on the mantel made its steady way around the face for the thousandth time. The delicate, steady ticking that would normally remain unnoticed drove Erik to the edge of insanity. Every second was torment, a moment more spent in infuriating indecision. His muscles ached with inaction and the need for something to release their pent up energy, but his mind held him here, waiting for the chance that Christine might forgive him and emerge from her room.

He jumped up from his seat before the clock with catlike grace, taking lengthy strides to stand before Christine's door. Facing it for a moment, he took a few deep breaths, lips slightly parted. Eyes suddenly narrowing in a burning glare at the piece of wood that separated him from the woman hiding within, he growled under his breath and deliberately returned to his seat, his fists clenched. He reclined in the chair and placed his hands together, his fingers forming a steeple over which his eyes bore into the clock once more.

She had stayed in her room since their argument, not making a sound or giving any indication of planning to come out. _Not that you can precisely blame her, Erik_, the voice in his head taunted, ignoring his volatile mood. _You most certainly played your part out smoothly. I am certain she would be quite content to starve and die in that room before facing you again._

He had, of course, taken certain precautions in the event that she should try something rash in her emotional state. She would most certainly not find anything akin to scissors or knives within her grasp, but just to be certain, Erik mentally checked to be certain there was nothing Christine could use to harm herself. _No matter how I loathe keeping her captive, I cannot allow her to leave me…in any manner. _

Restlessly he stood once more and began to pace like an imprisoned animal, his features gloomy enough to match his mask. A battle had raged within him from the moment he saw her from his perch atop Apollo's lyre, forgotten passions brewing within his heart. Far from being the cure for his longing for companionship, Christine had proven to be the source of an entirely new, and similarly dark, craving. He needed to be near her, a powerful force driving him to her doorway when he had no intentions to be there. Not for the first time that evening, Erik was relieved he had given Christine the key to her room.

He could, of course, force the lock or use one of the myriad hidden passages into her room, but that would be extremely ungentlemanly of him and quite against propriety. Besides, it would be best for Christine to lick her wounds and come to him ready to accept her situation and forgive.

Finding himself once more near her door, where he had wandered in his musings, he leaned against the frame and crossed his arms, deep in thought. His pride waged war with his reluctance to have his love angry with him. As formidable as his pride was, love finally subdued it. Perhaps she would simply require some coaxing to convince her to emerge. A few kind words on his part would not harm the situation, in any case.

"Christine?" he knocked and called hesitantly, making sure his voice remained neutral.

There was no reply from within.

Wondering if she had heard him, Erik cleared his throat and raised his voice slightly, "Christine? It's rather late…would you like to come out for some dinner? I imagine you must be rather famished."

"No," came the cross reply from behind the door, the terse word cutting off any further conversation.

Completely unnerved by her tone, Erik's eyebrows knitted and his mouth worked angrily, as if he longed to give a scathing retort but had forgotten how to speak. Taking a deep breath and pursing his lips, he waited until the blood ceased rushing in his ears before speaking again.

"Perhaps you would like to come out…for a change of scenery. You must be quite bored in that one room," he managed to force through clenched teeth, digging his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to control himself. He _could_ simply pick the lock and force her to come out. Propriety and gentlemanliness be damned.

_Keep calm_, he cautioned himself._ You are in control. Do not allow her to manipulate you so. _He waited impatiently for her response.

"I assure you, I am not tempted to come out in the least," Christine replied coldly.

Erik's whole body tensed in barely restrained anger. _She's acting like a petulant child!_ It was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself; Erik was not a man known for his patience.

"I will let this pass for now, but I fear I must inform you that your behavior is most unbecoming of a woman of your station," he stated with a hint of venom dripping from his words.

"My _station_? Perhaps you refer to my captivity?" came the swift retort.

A fire seemed to course through his whole body, heating him from head to toe. Eyes narrowed at the door as if it was the cause of his fury, he barked, "_Very_ _well_. Stay in your room. I will not ask again. But do remember, dear Christine…I will not be held accountable for what will happen if you try my patience once more."

Grumbling to himself about stubborn women and childish tantrums, Erik snatched his fedora from its place on the wall and shoved it on roughly. This had not been how he had envisioned their discussion to end. A threat slipped from his tongue unbidden; it seemed it would take a considerable amount of work to change his old habits.

Erik felt an intense need for a release of his violent emotions, and what better way than by stirring up some mayhem in his old haunt? The idea of once more roaming the halls of the Opera in all his former glory was delicious.

As an afterthought, he stalked to his room and removed a peculiar white mask from a shelf. Running his fingers over the skull gently, he smirked. Exchanging his current black mask for the death's head, he used stage makeup to darken the area around his eyes. Erik gazed at himself in the mirror. _A vindictive ghost once more – the Phantom of the Opera…_

Erik pressed the concealed release for a trap door along the wall. It opened with minimal sound, and he slipped through, plunging himself into darkness. Strangely soothed by the gloom that cloaked him, he began his journey to his old lair…and to the Paris Opera House.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

At the same moment Erik began his journey, someone else had just arrived at the magnificent Paris Opera House, a secretive building of towering statues and gilded staircases. In that singular place, the simple truths of the outside world melted away, opening the mind to the fantastic and unbelievable. Here was the celebration of the wondrous arts of life: the place where music and dance was spun into an intoxicating dream, telling of far-off places and distant times.

Here was also the playground of the devious dead: the late Phantom of the Opera, who was discovered to be no more than a mere man. _A mere deranged and frankly psychopathic man_, Raoul de Chagny reminded himself grimly as he stood in the grand entryway of the Opera. The Opera Ghost had been disposed of in a blaze of cleansing fire; he would never again roam the secret routes of the edifice, wreaking havoc in his wake. But his presence still seemed almost tangible, like a shadow left behind long after the one who cast it was gone.

Raoul could not, however, only look upon the Opera House as a symbol of mayhem and torment for both himself and his fiancée. This had been the place where his beloved Little Lotte had reentered his life through her stunning performance on stage. Recalling that night vividly, Raoul's heart soared for an instant. The beautiful sound of Christine's voice the first night she had performed in _Hannibal_ seemed to echo through the rooms still, lingering in the hallways. She had been so beautiful, so passionate…so unlike how she had become over the past months. _I love her with all my soul_, he sighed inwardly,_ and that is why I must find her and beg forgiveness…if she can find it in her heart._

Gaining confidence in his purpose, Raoul de Chagny thoughtfully removed his sodden cloak and left it by the door before he made his way to the stage. It was late in the evening, the patrons long since left the Opera, but Raoul knew someone would be bustling about the stage still. If rehearsals were moving slowly, the ballet mistress would push the ballerinas to the wee hours of the morning; if practice was through, the stage would be swept and readied for the morrow.

Surprisingly the stage was cleared; no ballet rats stumbled over their forms, and Madame Giry was nowhere to be seen. Even the stage hands had retired to their rooms to either catch a few precious hours of sleep or amuse themselves with cards and liquor. Perhaps it was a much later hour than Raoul had guessed; it was difficult to tell with the storm raging outside. Removing his watch from his pocket, he frowned. Apparently he had neglected to wind it in his haste, for the hands stood still. Perplexed, he made his way purposefully back to the dormitories and dressing rooms, hoping to find someone he could question as to Christine's location. There was always someone awake in the Paris Opera House.

As he rounded a corner, concentrating on securely placing his golden watch back in his pocket and quite lost in thought, Raoul slammed into someone roughly. The girl fell on her backside with a decidedly shrill "OWCH!" Staggering to catch his balance, Raoul peered down at her questioningly. Her hair fell in her face, disguising her identity.

Blinking in shock, Raoul quickly recovered his senses and scrambled to help the young lady to her feet. Meg Giry brushed her blonde hair back from her eyes peevishly, huffing exasperatedly and fixing her attacker with a fierce glare before realizing who it was. Angry words died on her lips.

"Oh, Raoul! I've been looking for you," she jumped to her feet nimbly, showing all her practiced grace and ignoring his hand that was offered.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle. I am very sorry, I should have been looking where I was-" he began with a blush of embarrassment before he was rudely interrupted with a wave of Meg's hand.

"Doesn't matter, come with me," she ordered tersely as she took his hand roughly and dragged him towards her dressing room, mumbling something nervously under her breath.

Raoul wondered vaguely if he had ever been this confused in his lifetime. _Looking for me? Why in God's name would she think I would come here? What is she so upset about? And why is she taking me to her dressing room?_ Somehow he could not put any of the thoughts that tumbled through his head to words, so he decided the best plan of action would be to follow the flustered girl and allow her to inform him what was going. _In her own sweet time_, he mumbled sarcastically to himself as he broke into a half-jog to keep up with her and not have his arm pulled from its socket.

Once Meg Giry had succeeded in dragging Raoul into her small dressing room, she released her vice-grip on his hand and turned to lock the door securely. Raoul stood demurely, massaging his abused hand while waiting for an explanation and nervously eyeing the door. When Meg turned to face him, her delicate blonde brows were knit with worry. Her lower lip trembled; she bit it apprehensively as she glanced at the gentleman before her.

Stiffening perceptively with impatience, Raoul finally asked, "What is going on, Mademoiselle Giry? Where is Christine?"

Meg fixed him with a blank stare, her mouth hanging open. _I am growing quite tired of receiving this look_, Raoul confessed to himself with a weary sigh. However, he waited as patiently as possible for her answer, realizing the situation must be more grave than he anticipated.

"You did not know she came here?" Meg asked with a concerned look on her face.

Waving her comment away with a gesture of his hand, Raoul replied, "Of course I knew she came here; she left me a note saying she came to visit you." As an afterthought he added pointedly, "As you can see, I am here, and I would not be if I did not know Christine was as well."

Meg stood quietly for a moment, playing idly with the fabric of her skirt. Silence hung between them. For a moment Raoul worried that his bluntness had embarrassed the girl, making her reluctant to speak again. There was something unnatural in the hush and her inability to meet his eye, however, and the truth slowly became apparent to him.

"…Christine is not here, is she?" Raoul managed to force out, his tone oddly bland. His posture betrayed his emotions, however; his body was tensed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth together.

"I am not entirely surprised she did not tell you," Meg Giry said, suddenly taking a defensive posture as she noted his body language; she crossed her arms beneath her breasts in an intimidating manner and fixed him with a smoldering glare. "You do not allow her out much, according to Christine."

Inwardly, Raoul marveled at the effective communication system of the female gender. Outwardly, he wanted to scream in frustration.

_And yet I cannot blame Christine. She merely needed someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. Unlike me. _Sighing sadly and glancing at the floor, a blush of embarrassment graced his cheeks.

"I understand I have not been a fiancé to her. She deserves so much better...but I was only worried for her safety," he said in a soft, pleading voice, as if begging Meg to believe him.

Arms still crossed, Meg's glare softened minutely. Christine was like a sister to her: Meg had been her sole friend for years when she first arrived at the Opera House, and Meg had shown Christine the ways of the Opera and kept her out of trouble. When Christine had become entangled in the violent affairs that transpired between her childhood sweetheart and her passionate and possessive Angel of Music, Meg had felt powerless to help her companion. Swept to the side, all she could do was sit back and watch nervously, praying for the happiness and safety of her best friend, Christine. _I will not be pushed aside once more when Christine needs my help_, she decided.

"Raoul, listen to me," she commanded in a stern voice, sounding vaguely like her mother, the ballet mistress. Raoul was unaccustomed to being addressed in such an impertinent tone, but he hardly noticed in his eagerness to learn of Christine.

"Christine probably would not wish me to tell you this, but if you love her and want her back, I believe you need to know."

_Want her back? Have I so utterly lost her affections? _He wondered dimly as he sat down heavily in a chair. _I thought this was simply a friendly visit to clear her head…_

Opening his mouth to speak, Meg silenced him with a raised hand and a no-nonsense expression. Raoul settled with furrowing his brows and fixing her with sad blue eyes, begging her to explain herself. Bile rose in his throat at the expectancy of horrible news. He did not have to wait long.

"Christine has left to bury Erik. The Opera Ghost."

Silence reigned for a moment, emotions running like electricity through the air in the small room as Meg Giry braced herself and Raoul struggled to accept what his ears had just heard.

"_What_?" Raoul's roar rent the calm as his world came crashing down upon him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The arcane passageways of the Opera called to him like a siren, inviting him to once again wander their lengths, and he was unable to deny their call. From the tunnels and trapdoors, one could easily discover the mysteries that remained hidden behind locked doors and gain access to restricted areas of the enormous building. Acquaintance with the workings of the secret pathways laid vast power in the hands of whoever knew them; power that filled Erik with a delicious, sinister delight. He alone knew the full extent of the dominion he held over the pawns that inhabited the Opera; all he had to do was apply his hand gently where it was needed, and with a few effortless threats and some minor scares, he could manipulate the Paris Opera House from the shadows. This was his creation, his realm; once he had ruled it with an iron fist, but his Opera managers had become idle and decadent in his absence, like shepherds who had not seen the teeth of a wolf in ages. That would have to change; they would once again know order and the fear that comes with inadequacy. He had been gone for too long…and now he had returned to remind them what it meant to be displeasing to his all-seeing eye.

Breathing deeply and filling his lungs with the musty odor in the passageway, Erik shivered with pleasure. _How I have missed this_, he mused with an inward chuckle. His body tingled in anticipation, adrenaline coursing through his veins like a drug as he turned a corner and pressed the release for a trapdoor. Slipping quietly out of the passageway and into the cellar, he made his way through the murky dimness confidently. He ached to once again hear his title whispered among Opera customers, dancers, chorus members, and especially the paranoid and neurotic managers. Ever efficient, a thought crossed his mind and caused him to smirk beneath his mask. _Perhaps I shall pay a visit to little Meg Giry and her ballet rat friends. They are always willing to grace me with a scream, and I know word will travel fast upon their lips…_

Sudden voices from the darkness and a faint light piercing the shadows caused Erik's eyes to widen and heart to skip a few beats. Leaping back into the darkness and wrapping himself in his black cloak, he stood perfectly still among various neglected statues and mannequins, not daring to breathe. He narrowed his golden eyes as a lantern appeared before him, shining painfully in eyes adjusted to limited light. Tilting his head down slowly to shade his watering eyes with the brim of his fedora, he peered into the receding darkness as his eyes adapted and had to bite back a growl.

Two armed policemen were swiftly approaching him, scouring every part of the cellar, their mustached faces turning this way and that and pistols shining pointedly in the lamplight. The tables had turned on Erik, for he was now the hunted; they were clearly searching for something.

_And they shall find "something" if I do not move soon_, his mind buzzed as cold fear took him in its icy grip. Sliding deeper into the shadows to evade the approaching light, he gradually inched his way back toward the trapdoor he had just exited.

"I don't see why we have to come down here in the middle of the night," one of the men said in an exasperated tone, his imposing moustache and uniform belied by his youthful voice. "We've already searched every cellar a thousand times!"

"Shut it," his companion spat, obviously the elder, "You know good and well that even if that devil isn't here, we do what the vicomte orders. If he told us to come down here looking for a ghost, then we'll look for a ghost and we won't complain."

Erik found himself backing away more urgently, the desire to run overwhelming him and making him shudder as the officers drew closer. _Looking for me? The vicomte? _He fought to keep his breathing even and silent, recognizing that he was dancing along the fringes of panic and if it overwhelmed him he would surely be done for. Keeping the light coming towards him within eyesight, he backed into a wall and moved along it. Running his hands over the smooth surface desperately, he searched for the release to the trap door. It would not be long before the pool of light fell upon the hem of his cloak…

His foot hit something metal, and it clattered loudly in the silence and drawing his eyes to it. The toe of his boot was touching the lantern Christine had dropped while searching for his body. _Ah. Ironic_, he laughed hysterically in his mind, the terror he had been attempting to quell causing bile to rise in his throat.

"What was that?" The beam swung to shine towards him. Erik heard the distinct click of guns being drawn and cocked, and hurried footsteps rushed towards him.

Erik fell into a crouch to retrieve the lantern just as his gloved hand found the switch to the mechanism. He slipped inside and shut the door just in time.

Leaning his weight against the entrance, not so much to keep the police from entering as to steady himself, Erik breathed heavily. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it away with a shaky hand. _Certainly did not foresee such swift action on the damned vicomte's part._

Anger rapidly replaced fear as he straightened himself to his full height, no longer needing the support of the wall. His eyes flashed within the death's head, fury forming a fire in the hollow sockets of the mask. _Curse that boy! I never expected him to care enough to delay his schedule and arrive so soon. And to dispatch these cretins to search _my_ Opera…He will pay. I allowed him live last time, but I cannot be held responsible for my actions now…Not when he chooses to defy me once more…_

Twirling the extinguished lantern in his hand idly, he made his way back through the underground passage to his current haven, his Opera mayhem delayed but new joy found in musing over specific grisly ways to dispatch the irritating young vicomte.


	8. Descent into the Grave

Revised chapter...I was already halfway through revising it when I stopped writing a while back, so I figured I would finish this as I read through it.**

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**Chapter Eight: Descent into the Grave**

Stars glittered in a sky that was now clear of the ominous clouds of the days before. The calm of twilight descended as lonely crickets began to serenade the night. The air was cold and slightly damp from the day's rain and tendrils of mist rose from the earth like the visible sighs of the dead.

Which was appropriate, seeing as Erik found himself walking amongst them.

His boots squelched quietly in the soft earth as he wandered amongst the crumbling tombstones of the abandoned graveyard. Weeds grew thick in most places, a testament to the sense of decay that loomed heavily over the whole field. A shadow fell across him as he stalked, and Erik looked up to see a statue of an angel towering over him. One of the ornately carved wings had fallen to reside on the ground among leaf litter and dirt; as Erik's eyes traveled inexorably upwards his breath caught. Half of the angel's face had crumbled from weathering, the features becoming a pockmarked travesty of humanity. Instinctively his hand jerked to the right side of his face.

The sounds of the night were pierced by a shriek as some animal nearby died; as with all things, the rhythm of life soon resumed without any regard for its loss.

After a moment Erik tugged his fedora brim down to shade his view from the fallen angel as he walked away into the night with a scowl.

He passed the broken and splintered doors of a small church surrounded by a twisted metal fence; the weeds that covered the whole graveyard paid no reverence to the God that supposedly resided within as they sprouted from every surface that would support their growth. Without a second glance at the holy edifice Erik continued on his way. _God has never acknowledged me, so why should I acknowledge God? For all intents and purposes, neither of us fulfills our calling. God, the uncaring father, and I, the undead ghost. Who has more power, I wonder? Will God be able to still my hand when the vicomte is in my grasp? I think not._

His mind had raged since he had retreated from the Opera, but thoughts of killing the vicomte steadily dissipated as he reached the veiled entrance to his lair. No matter how tenaciously he held to the anger coursing through his veins, its importance was overshadowed by what was before him. His angel was waiting within, and the mere thought of her brought relative peace to his tormented mind. Touching a carved skull on a tomb eagerly, a latch clicked and the heavy stone covering slipped away, revealing a crude staircase leading into the depths of the earth. The moonlight shone eerily on the white of Erik's death's head as he smiled and descended into the grave, his cloak swirling as the stone rolled back into place.

XXXXXXXXXX

Silence stretched endlessly as Christine sat next to her door, ear pressed to the smooth grain of the wood. She had remained motionless for what seemed like hours since Erik had returned; her legs had begun to cramp and tingle from remaining in the same position, but she determinedly ignored the discomfort. Christine did not claim to know where Erik had wandered off, but she had heard the telltale click of his boots on the floor and the opening and closing of a door. Not that it precisely mattered where he captor had disappeared; all that mattered to Christine was the knowledge that there was in fact an exit to the eerie lair – and with it the possibility of escape.

Her stomach grumbled loudly and she winced, holding completely still in anticipation of footsteps outside the door. After a moment of panic and an effort to regulate her breathing, Christine decided the noise had only appeared thunderous. _Curse him_, she thought with a frown as she massaged her complaining stomach, although she knew it was not entirely Erik's fault that her stomach was clinging to her spine in its emptiness. How was he to know she had not eaten since the morning she discovered his obituary in the paper?

_Well he could have at least been polite when he offered me food_, her mind insisted stubbornly. Her stomach growled its concurrence.

Deciding she would have no peace until her stomach was satisfied, she stood quickly. Her head swam, either from lack of food or the dizzying situation she was in. Stretching with a wince, she waited until the pins and needles left the muscles of her legs.

The hour was late, and judging from the lack of noise from the rooms without, Erik had retired to his room to sleep. Now was her chance. Carefully Christine retrieved the key to the lock from her bodice. She blushed slightly, ever modest, and reassured herself that it was only there because she lacked pockets. Slowly inserting the key in the hole, she turned it and cringed when it made a soft click. A moment passed when she did not breathe, listening for any sign that she had been discovered. Spending so much time waiting and listening had heightened her senses, which had the unfortunate side effect of making her jump at the most minute noises.

As unnecessary as the lock was, Christine felt completely exposed as she tucked the key away once more. Nothing but the door stood between her and the possibility of escape, but nothing but the same door could keep her from whatever deranged game Erik was playing. Her confidence faded; perhaps she should not be tempting fate by searching for an escape so soon. Surely he would have assumed she would…and would be waiting.

But the thought of food was too compelling and she turned the doorknob. _I am certain he would give me some food if I simply asked_, she thought, but her pride got the better of her and she continued listening for a moment. Satisfied that the noise of the knob had gone unheard, she opened the door and squinted out into the darkness outside her room.

Once more she hesitated, blinking and trying to urge her eyes to adjust to the blackness before her. Each second of waiting made her already tense nerves ever more raw and her resolve ever weaker. Deciding against bringing one of the candles from her room with her, as the light might filter under his door when she passed, Christine took a steadying breath and boldly walked into the gloom, watching the triangle of warm yellow candlelight become swallowed by shadows as she closed the door to her room behind her silently.

Slowly and painfully her eyes compensated for the lack of light, and soon the rough shapes of objects became apparent in the sitting room directly across from the doorway where she stood. Her childhood fear of darkness rose to the forefront of her mind, and her throat tightened as a cry of fright began to form, but this time her unease was not due to the blanketing gloom, but what might be lurking within it, appearing just as another formless silhouette.

Christine would not allow her anxious feelings to find any outlet other than swift motion and a determination to finish her task as quickly as humanly possible. _Now to find the kitchen._ She peered around the walls of the sitting room and discovered the gaping black rectangle that signified a hallway to her right. Rationalizing things in her mind, Christine determined this passageway was just as likely to lead to the kitchen as any other one, for she had no understanding of the layout of the prison she found herself within, and so she picked her way delicately around the furniture in her way and wandered down the hall. She was certain to let one small hand trail along the wall, light as a feather, to keep her bearings and alert her if the hallway took a sharp or unexpected turn.

Soon the pads of her fingertips encountered a dip in the wall, and feeling about it, Christine ascertained a doorframe and a sturdy wooden door. Finding the smooth, cold metal of the handle, she carefully and quietly turned it. The knob stuck. She tried it once more before being convinced that it was indeed locked. Once more perusing the hall, she came upon a second door. The second denied her entrance as well. Dimly she wondered if she should be checking the other side of the hallway for doors also, but try as she might she could not convince herself to end her contact with the wall to the right of her and risk becoming disoriented in the darkness. To add to the predicament, a nagging voice in the back of her head warned her that she could open any of those doors and find herself in _his_ room. That prospect brought a rush of heat to her cheeks against her will, even as she shuddered in fear. Unwilling to analyze the emotions that roiled within her, she continued on.

Although Christine first believed it to be a trick of her eyes, it soon became apparent that a door not much ahead of her was not only open, but emitting light. As she approached it silently, her breath catching in her throat as if even that would alert him to her presence, she peeked around the doorframe cautiously. A single candle remained lit at the entryway, valiantly pushing back the darkness. The small pool of light from it allowed her to see the vague outline of a table in the middle of the room. Satisfied with finally discovering her destination, Christine entered the kitchen. She turned and, upon finding small matches, made herself busy lighting more candles scattered around the room. Satisfied with the warm glow that enveloped the room, she turned to look at the table.

Christine's heart made a frantic attempt to burst from the confines of her chest. Her captor sat before the table, his arms folded and lying before him, his head rested on his forearms, his golden eyes closed in sleep. _Sleep. He's asleep_, she repeated like a mantra as her heart calmed its desperate pounding slowly but surely.

He had removed his traditional fedora and cloak, which had been thrown haphazardly over the chair next to him. The skull mask remained in place, however, sending cold chills down Christine's spine as its white surface caught the light. Averting her gaze from the plaster mask, her eyes traveled to his ungloved hands and she couldn't help but smile slightly. A cup of Russian tea sat cooling next to one hand, his fingers still wrapped lightly about its handle. Apparently he had lost interest and chosen sleep over refreshment.

Christine's features softened and her heart ached as her eyes took in the scene. There was nothing imposing or sinister about his sleeping form. Her fear subsided and a sensation that she had not expected welled within her: pity. _He's exhausted; the poor thing. I wonder how long it has been since he has had a good night's sleep?_ She vividly recalled the dark shadows that circled his eyes, which was only heightened by the stage paint he now wore.

Erik stirred in his sleep and Christine froze, eyes locked on his features, preparing to flee before he awoke. But he simply shifted himself on the hard tabletop and sighed deeply, lips slightly parted.

Her chocolate eyes dwelled a little too long on his lips, and with a mad blush she realized she had parted her lips as well, breathing slightly faster as her heart thundered in her narrow chest. Cursing her wanton emotions, Christine tore her eyes from his form.

Turning to hide her rosy complexion self-consciously, as if Erik could actually see her, Christine walked to the cupboards, using a stool to reach them, and opened one gently, peering inside. A few spider webs greeted her, swaying lightly in response to her breath. Moving to the others, she found much of the same. No food in sight, and no duster, which would explain the thin layer of grey over everything. There was, however, tea. Lots of tea.

Glancing back at Erik's sleeping figure in disbelief, Christine raised her delicate eyebrows curiously. _Does he simply not eat? I noticed he seemed frighteningly thin, but I never suspected...A man cannot live on tea alone._ She shook her head in disapproval as she looked upon her fallen angel with sad eyes. He breathed gently in his slumber, and a stray lock of dark hair fell over his face.

_Why did you ever leave him? Look at what he has become…he needs you! _A voice in her head said scornfully. But her mothering instincts could not be allowed to overwhelm the anger she still harbored for her captivity, although it certainly did dull the edges.

Tearing her eyes from him once again, Christine turned away and closed the cupboard door with a dull thud, admitting defeat in her search for food.

"So I see that hunger has driven you from your solitude," a deep voice whispered in her ear.

Twirled to face the voice, Christine had to perform a frantic, clumsy dance in an effort to regain her balance as the stool teetered dangerously. Her flailing arms were grasped and steadied by Erik's strong, cool hands as he smirked up at her with an insufferable look in his golden eyes. The sight of his eyes glowing from within the dark sockets of the death's head made her shudder, and he seemed to sense it through his light contact with her. The shadow of a hurt look swept across his face as he apparently misinterpreted her shiver as distaste with being touched. But once again his icy demeanor returned, hiding any pain that had been in his features before.

He released her arms, taking a few steps back into the gloom nervously. "Forgive me," he explained smoothly, "I had some…business to attend to."

"Yes…well…," Christine was at a loss for words. His touch had left her skin tingling, and she could not decide whether she enjoyed the sensation or not.

"Well?" Erik quirked a dark eyebrow at her as the ghost of a smirk once again appeared on his lips, drawing them slightly upward at one corner.

"Well nothing. I wasn't hungry," she lied blatantly as her growling stomach loudly proclaimed the truth, betraying her valiant effort to prove otherwise.

"Ah. I see," his voice dripped sarcasm as he stalked forward to look up into her eyes. For some unexplained reason, his close proximity made Christine feel lightheaded and confused. Was her dizziness a byproduct of an empty stomach, or a reaction to his body being so near to her own? Was the shiver that wracked her body due to the cold air, or the heat that seemed to fill every inch of her?

As if sensing her hidden and conflicting emotions, Erik's teeth flashed in a wicked grin, lending a devious and devilish air to his masked countenance. It sent dark thrills through her, and Christine prayed to God that she wasn't blushing, which naturally caused a rosy hue to spread unbidden across her creamy skin.

At the sight of her blush, Erik's golden eyes took on a mysterious glint, his smile becoming decidedly pointed as he looked up at her. They were mere inches apart, she could feel the heat radiating off his body in the cold air, and yet he seemed content to simply drive her insane with his casual closeness.

_Drive me insane? What am I thinking!_ Her blush deepened as she set her face into a neutral expression and cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak.

"I-I said I wasn't hungry. I was just…," she gestured hopelessly at the cupboards behind her, as if they would support her claims of innocence. Their dusty interiors remained silent.

_Why is she flustered?_ Erik's mind reeled, although he remained grinning and nonchalant on the outside. Curiosity got the better of him as he wondered what had come over Christine. _Could it be…?_

"Of course. How silly of me," Erik purred, deliberately placing his hands on either side of Christine and leaning his weight against the counter behind her, bringing them dangerously close.

Christine's heart raced as she felt his warm breath on her lips. She was certain he could hear her unsteady breathing. Her lips parted slightly as she fought to regain control of herself. The minute motion had drawn Erik's eyes to her lips. He leaned in a bit more, and Christine's eyes closed unconsciously as his lips barely brushed hers as he spoke.

"Tea?"

Completely bewildered, Christine's eyes fluttered open in shock. _What did he just say?_ Her mind raced, wondering if she had somehow misinterpreted him. Maybe he had not even spoken at all, and she had only imagined it in her feverish mind.

"Wh-what?" her voice came out shaky and almost hoarse.

"Would you care for some tea, since you claim you're not hungry?" he repeated as he reached into the cupboard behind her and pulled out a canister of the offered refreshment. A light danced in his eyes although he had schooled his expression into neutrality.

Suddenly Christine was quite convinced her supposed angel took great joy in playing the devil. _Or maybe I just assumed too much_, she pondered, her mind swimming. Perhaps he had not meant anything at all in his actions. Perhaps she was just a silly girl reading too much into the actions of an enigmatic man.

A hand was offered to her. Christine stared at it numbly, unsure of what to do.

"Would you like to come down from your perch, my little bird?" Erik's lips twitched uncontrollably as he fought a smile.

Christine realized she was still standing on the stool. In a daze, she took his cool hand and allowed him to help her down, ignoring the feeling of his ungloved hand on hers. Her stomach grumbled loudly to remind her that she was forgetting something.

Erik glanced down at her and chuckled triumphantly.

"I suppose I will eat, if you are intent on forcing me to," she conceded moodily as she moved to sit at the table. Her mind was still in a fog, and she proceeded to inwardly curse herself for allowing her captor to play with her emotions so easily. _Well I am hungry_, she rationalized._ I cannot be expected to think straight when I am starving…_

_Or when he gets that close._

Erik went to the pantry that Christine had overlooked to find his angel something to eat, using the time while he prepared the food to steady his nerves. That game required all the self-control his weary body could manage. But at least he had won his battle…and discovered the interesting influence he still held over Christine.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sun was beginning to rise, shyly allowing its golden rays to spill through the windows of the Paris Opera House. Dust motes sparkled as they lazily floated about in the air of the room Raoul had been kindly given for his use during his time at the Opera.

Sneezing violently three consecutive times, Raoul de Chagny impatiently threw open a window, thrust his cloak through the opening, and shook it thoroughly to relieve it of the cobwebs and filth that it had accumulated overnight. Even this minor tax upon his weary muscles made them ache in protest. The entire night since his arrival at the Opera had been spent in his search for Christine. He had combed the passageways and cellars of the Opera for what seemed like an eternity, traversing many hidden doors and hallways, and all he had managed to discover was the fact that he very well might be allergic to dust.

Dark bags hung under his bloodshot blue eyes and his golden hair was mussed, completing his disheveled appearance. Throwing his cloak upon the floor in a pile, his jaw cracked as he yawned and rubbed his dry eyes with his fists. The need for sleep pulled at him, making his muscles feel like jelly. His eyelids drooped heavily as he shut the window.

_No, I can't sleep yet. Christine is still missing_, he insisted in his mind, biting the inside of his cheek to keep awake. The stab of pain cleared his foggy senses for a moment, but soon his vision blurred once again as sleepiness dulled his senses.

A tap on his shoulder interrupted his battle to stay conscious and sent him spinning, eyes wide in surprise. Meg Giry stood before him, holding up a cup of steaming tea in her small hands.

"You should rest," she insisted, her brows drawn together with worry as she offered the cup to Raoul. She did not bother asking about his search; Raoul wondered vaguely whether this omission was due to the assumption that Christine would be with Raoul when she was found or lack of faith in the outcome of his efforts.

He chose not to dwell on that latter possibility and instead went to relieve Meg of her burden. His hands shook awkwardly, recovering from the cold of the cellars, and refused to entirely cooperate with the delicate movement required in taking the cup. Tea sloshed over the rim, splashing his skin and stinging with its heat, but he ignored it and took a sip. After clearing his throat, Raoul shook his head, "No, I can't give up. Christine could be in danger right now…"

_Christine could be with -HIM- right now. _It was what he wanted to say. It was the truth. Or at least he thought it was the truth. But Meg might think him paranoid for professing such a possibility.

As if sensing his unspoken thoughts, Meg said softly, "Raoul…Christine is safe. She probably just took longer than expected to find his body or had to bury him somewhere specifically. I do not pretend to know what she promised him. But he is dead, Raoul. It was even in the papers. And no one has been in the cellars of the Opera since…well…you know," she waved her hand with a blush, referring to the abduction of Christine after _Don Juan Triumphant_. She knew it was a touchy subject with the vicomte and wisely chose not to breach the topic openly.

Sipping his tea slowly and reveling in the warmth it brought him, Raoul tried to persuade his mind to believe Meg. No matter how he tried to rationalize her beliefs, it did not work. _Have I been suspicious for so long that I simply cannot believe the truth? Perhaps he is dead. Wouldn't that be a good thing? Why can I not accept that this could be the end to our suffering under his insane whims? _Although he could begrudgingly admit the possibility of Meg's professions, it did not entirely justify Christine's prolonged absence.

Meg waited patiently for a moment, eyeing Raoul's exhausted features with a disapproving eye. Although Christine undoubtedly needed to be found, it would do no good to have the vicomte overtaxing himself and becoming more of a hindrance than a help.

"Rest for a few hours," Meg suggested as Raoul drained the last of his tea, motioning to the small bed in the corner of the room.

Raoul opened his mouth to protest again, but Meg, who had realized the only way to deal with the vicomte was to take charge, continued, "I will come and wake you, and we can take shifts searching for Christine. There is no use in exhausting ourselves; then who will look for her?"

He backed down with a sigh, nodding his head in agreement. _Stubborn woman…but I suppose she is right._

With a satisfied nod, Meg took the empty cup and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Raoul alone once more.

Raoul kicked off his boots clumsily and sprawled out on the bed, fully clothed and without turning down the sheets. Although it was a much smaller bed than he was accustomed to and much less comfortable, it seemed at that moment to be soft as down. All his tense muscles gradually relaxed and he sighed in fatigued satisfaction. His tormented mind quickly succumbed to a fitful sleep, where a masked face danced through his dreams with echoing laughter.


	9. Morbid Musings

**Final-Threshold:** I assure you, I am quite undeserving of you love haha. I am, however, glad that you enjoyed that last chapter. And of course Christine is acting like a childish brat: she has a habit of that…and of being indecisive (wink)  
**Phantomann: **Ahh, sweet tension! I had to do a chapter like that, my friend who requested something at least mildly EC hates it when I don't go through with a steamy scene. I just love to be contrary like that.  
**PhantomsHeart:** "fop-cold"…that made me choke on my snack lol. For some reason Raoul just seems like someone who would be violently allergic to dust, since he lives the high life and probably doesn't come in contact with it much. And I'd steal the fedora as well, but I just put it in the story! Nobody can have it yet!  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess:** Christine needs some dang food. She could do with putting on a few pounds lol. Now I'm hungry too…  
**Erik'sLady:** Glad you like it! Be sure to keep reading…I love new reviewers (happydance)  
**Son Kat:** Thanks! Christine needed to be taken down a few notches…thinking she can pout and yell at Erik. (shakes head) I like to torture her on occasion.  
**Dove of Night:** Another new reviewer! I'm glad you like it so far; be sure to stick around for a while!  
**Tryptophan: **You are officially the keeper of my new favorite word: Porkchoppery. It makes my soul sing (cue angelic voices)! And Erik's always hazardous to your health. That's why he comes with a warning label (nods twice). Yay for the summer!  
**Trallgorda: **You flatter me immensely! Look, you're making me blush…thanks for the praise, and I hope you'll continue to let me know what you think of my little tale.  
**Soccernat11: **I shall most certainly try my best. I tend to enjoy writing details, but sometimes I worry that it'll bore people. Thanks though, I was rather fond of that chapter myself.  
**Kagome1514: **Thanks, for some reason I thought you had said Blindly…which could account for my not being able to find it. I'll save your spot while you're gone haha!

**This chapter is mainly here to hint at Erik's devious new plan. Erik has got to get Raoul out of the picture somehow…or die trying. And Christine is addicted to being around Erik. Stalker girl. (jk) Not my fav chapter by far, but it had to be done.

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**Chapter Nine: Morbid Musings**

Thick candles flickered and sputtered fitfully in the sitting room as wax dripped slowly down their sides and pooled beneath them. Glancing around at the numerous musical instruments scattered about the room with his hands in his pockets, Erik sighed contentedly and allowed a smile to grace his features. This was his favorite place in the world. Here the harsh realities of life melted away in the awesome flame of his musical genius. Here he created the soul-stirring melodies that had once captured Christine's heart. Here was the birthplace of the music of the night. _Well, not exactly "here." Here had to be relocated._

Moving to some of the shelves that were completely covered with different instruments, Erik brought one hand to run along the smooth strings of a violin. Many of his original instruments had been looted during the raid upon his lair, never to be seen again. _Those imbeciles probably used them for firewood. They most certainly couldn't play them_, he thought with a sneer. No matter the brave front he showed in the face of such loss, his eyes stung at the mere thought of his old haven. _Why did they have to destroy the music room? There was nothing remotely sinister or intimidating about it. It was pure. It was innocent. It was raped._ A lump formed in his throat and had to swallow and take a few deep breaths to regain composure.

Erik had managed to rescue a few pieces of singed music and even fewer instruments from the burned and broken rubble. The violin that he had played in the graveyard in Perros had been saved, miraculously untouched. Maybe there was a God. Or maybe the mob had just overlooked it in their haste to set fire to everything they could in as little time as possible.

He needed to play; his emotions were running away with him.

He would have liked nothing better than to be able to sit down and pour his confusion and anger into playing his pipe organ, but instead had settled on the gentle sound of the piano. Soft, delicate notes swelled suddenly as Erik composed his music in the semidarkness.

Time passed in a blur, but Erik didn't care. Time held no meaning in his world. He knew it was late (or early, he couldn't bother himself to look upon the clock) and Christine had finished her meal. He had heard her dainty footsteps as she tiptoed back to her room, trying not to disturb him as he composed. It was only polite that he return the favor and try not to disturb her sleep with the jarring sounds of the organ. She was, in fact, the one that he could thank for his returned interest in music.

Erik's fingers danced over the ivory keys, drawing forth a sweet lullaby. He needed something to soothe his mind. Thoughts cascaded around his skull, colliding and crashing together and making him feel restless. _Ironic that I recently spent the past six months in a fog, and now I can't seem to stop thinking_, he mused idly.

The vicomte's search of the Opera demanded his immediate attention, however. Casting aside all other conflicting thoughts, he focused solely on what was to be done about the intrusive, pompous boy.

His fingers halted their movements as Erik savored a particularly pleasing revelation that brought a malicious grin: _I could just kill the bastard. _His eyes glazing over slightly with ecstasy, Erik imagined the many ways he could accomplish the task. The Punjab lasso would be too easy, too quick. He desired to draw it out and let the boy suffer for all the pain he had caused him. A bit of torture would definitely be acceptable; he would take great pleasure in slowly destroying the impeccable appearance of the pretty-boy. Vaguely he wondered if his torture chamber of old was still functional. He was sure the mob had not dared to touch it. _The vicomte would be quite cozy in there…_

Shaking his head, he resumed playing the soothing notes of his composition. _Somehow I doubt Christine would approve. _But did he need her approval? She _was_ his…and yet he still wished to please her in whatever he did. Erik held Christine in the palm of his hand: he could do with her as he desired; he had ultimate power over her. He could keep her here in his lair for the rest of his days and she could do nothing about it. And yet he constantly found himself wishing to follow her around and cater to her every need like a faithful dog. The thought made him slightly nauseated. But he couldn't help it. He wanted to please her. She deserved to be doted upon and loved and cared for.

_You brought her here determined to change your ways and take the upper hand. Start thinking like the master, not the dog_, he berated himself as his music took on a heated edge. _I will not be used and abandoned again. I would not survive it._

Realizing that Christine had once again consumed his thoughts, he slammed his fists down onto the keys. _Keep your mind on the task at hand! Christine will not be here much longer if you don't take care of the damned vicomte!_

Discarding his previous idea to efficiently and permanently dispose of the man, Erik resumed his soothing melody. He stared into the hypnotic flames of the candles before him. There were other ways to be rid of Raoul de Chagny. He just had to think.

Erik held a definite advantage over the oblivious boy. He was believed to be dead. Logically, that would rule out the possibility that Christine had been whisked away by the infamous Opera Ghost. _Then again, I doubt that boy is thinking logically. It's difficult enough to think logically with Christine around; it's nearly impossible when she is gone. _

_Women. _It wasn't as if he had much experience in the matter, though.

Erik also knew the innermost workings of his domain through the use of trapdoors and passageways. He wasn't called the lover of trapdoors for nothing. If it boiled down to it, Erik could easily spend the rest of his days skirting the police and whoever else decided to comb the Opera House in search of him. _But I shouldn't have to. It is MY Opera. _

He could not kill the vicomte and he would not simply ignore him.

_He will likely hunt us until the day we die_, Erik thought with a groan, closing his eyes wearily as his hands continued to run along the piano keys.

The music that wound through the darkness stopped abruptly as his golden eyes snapped open and widened in the skull mask.

_Until the day we die._

_I am already believed to be in the grave…perhaps I will be forced to drag my angel down with me._

Raoul would certainly abandon his chase if his fiancée met a tragic end.

How Erik had missed his devious epiphanies. With a wicked chuckle, he leaped from his seat in one graceful motion and turned to leave the room.

Christine was curled up on the settee before him, simply gazing at him curiously.

XXXXXXXXX

A few awkward moments passed. Erik stood completely still, barely breathing, as if Christine would perhaps not notice him if he didn't move or make a noise. He was not so lucky.

"If this is how you spend your nights, then I'm not surprised you look like death warmed over," she said softly, her voice tinged with concern. When his ungloved hand flew to touch his skull mask self-consciously she quickly added, "Not like that: tired."

Nervously he lowered his hand, his fingers twitching. _What is she doing awake? How long has she been here?_

_Why am I just staring at her?_ He frantically tried to tear his eyes from her. But he couldn't. She was reclined before him, wearing her grey silk nightgown with a thick midnight blue robe tied around her. She had drawn her knees up before her and wrapped her arms casually about them, resting her chin on her knees and contemplating him over them. His eyes traveled to the creamy skin of her neck as she brushed her loose hair over her shoulder.

_Does she delight in tormenting me? Or does she even know…? _He swallowed hard and dragged his eyes up to lock with hers. His confidence of earlier evaporated like mist in the afternoon sun; he no longer played the part of the hunter. Christine had surprised him this time, and the tables were turned.

The silence between the two lengthened as they merely stared at one another. Erik fought the overwhelming urge to run under her soft coffee-colored gaze. His muscles twitched nervously, prepared for flight. He fought for air desperately; his lungs refused to work properly.

Seeing that Erik was not about to break the calm, Christine pulled her robe closer around her slim frame and shivered a bit. "I couldn't sleep…and I heard you playing," she said hesitantly, wondering if he was angry at her for eavesdropping. She could read some frenzied emotion in his golden orbs, but could not determine what it was, much less the origin of it.

Somehow Erik managed to regain control of his frozen body. He bowed slightly to the young woman before him, falling back upon etiquette and courtesy to conceal his passions.

"My sincerest apologies, I did not realize my music would disturb you. I was just finishing up-"

"No!" Christine broke in, startling Erik and making his eyebrows shoot up.

"E-Excuse me?" Had he somehow offended her? Should he leave?

Blushing furiously at her outburst, Christine's eyes traveled down to the floor as she idly played with the tie of her robe. _Why did I yell that? He probably thinks I'm daft…_

"I'm sorry, I meant you didn't disturb me…in fact, I came in here to listen. It was soothing. It seems like I haven't heard music in an eternity," she confessed uncertainly to the floor, trembling visibly as she whispered, "My father used to play for me when I couldn't sleep…"

Erik's heart softened at her blushing uncertainty. _The poor child. She's alone in a new place and scared. Of me. _He sighed sadly, unshed tears threatening to fall. Every fiber of his being ached to change that fact, to restore the trust that Christine had once had in her Angel of Music. _The past is past. Her angel is no more. But I love her as much, if not more than I did then. I can't live without her, and the least I can do is calm and reassure her._

His mind screamed in warning: it was dangerous to be this close to her. It was dangerous to offer her comfort and compassion…to offer her a glimpse of his weak heart. She would crush it as she had before.

Sympathy overruled caution. Walking over to stand before her, he knelt on one knee. Christine's eyes remained locked on her knees, and she seemed to have begun trembling more violently as he moved to her.

He was so close to her. She had been shivering from the cold air earlier, but now she found herself shivering as she sensed the heat from his body before her. Christine didn't dare to raise her eyes as visions of earlier flashed through her head. The feel of his warm breath upon her lips, his strong arms on either side of her, his exasperating smirk, the brush of his lips upon hers…

Christine sensed him move and her breath hitched in her lungs. Time seemed to slow as she awaited…_What am I waiting for?_ She blushed deeper.

Gently chucking her under the chin with his finger, he forced her to look at him and smiled kindly as he tilted his head. His eyes glimmered, catching the light from the candles and making them appear as if they held a fire of their own.

"I will play for you."

Her heart began to race at his words. She was relieved that he was not angry with her; she was more than furious enough at herself at the moment. _You just couldn't sleep…it doesn't mean you have to find him. You've spent nights tossing and turning. It doesn't give you a right to seek him out. And it most certainly doesn't mean your heart should be pounding._

Walking to a shelf and picking up the ornately carved violin that had been rescued from the fire, Erik leaned against the wall casually. He brought the violin to rest on his shoulder and leaned his chin upon it. Taking up the bow, he began to play _The Resurrection of Lazarus_, the familiar melancholy tune recalling to Christine's mind vivid memories of her father. It brought a strange calm to her troubled heart and her conflicting emotions were forgotten as she let herself be carried away by the comforting melody.

Erik's piercing eyes watched as Christine stretched out on the settee, yawning hugely and fighting off the droop of her eyelids. When her eyelids became too heavy to keep open, she gently let them drift closed. He continued to play until her breathing became slow and deep as sleep overcame her.

Hesitantly he lowered his violin, and when Christine did not stir he replaced it on the shelf. Glancing back at her sleeping form, Erik decided against moving her. _She seems so peaceful. I don't want to chance waking her needlessly; she's exhausted._

Retrieving a blanket from the back of a nearby chair, he draped it over Christine; she sighed contentedly and snuggled herself deeper into it. He found himself leaning over Christine to brush a stray curl from her face and stopped himself before his fingers came in contact with her cheek. _Just touching her isn't a sin_, he convinced himself. It felt like one though.

Extinguishing the few candles around the room, he left one lit to cast some light should Christine awaken. _She doesn't like the dark_, he recalled with a sigh. Darkness was all he had known; it was all he could give her. _Perhaps she could learn to not be afraid of the night…_

Quashing his hopeless fantasies, Erik yawned and stretched his lean muscles. He ran his hands through his hair and groaned tiredly. _A bit of sleep wouldn't go amiss._

Before leaving to seek refuge in his own bedroom, Erik looked back at his angel.

He was a devil and she was a creature of heaven. There was no doubt in his mind that he would never see her in the afterlife, if it existed.

His protective nature rose within him along with fierce jealousy. He would gladly damn himself to the fiery depths of hell before letting Raoul de Chagny take her from him. But Erik had a plan for that.

He knew it was selfish and cruel, but he would deceive her once more if it meant having her: his very own angel to brighten his living hell.


	10. The Seeds of Madness

**PhantomsHeart: **Of course Erik wouldn't really kill Christine. He can barely bring himself to touch her when she's awake haha. He'd lose his nerve…poor shy thing. And when I'm done with the fedora, you're most welcome to fight Erik for it. I hear he's a mighty good thumb wrestler, so watch out.  
**No One Mourns the Wicked: **Erik's trying desperately to be aloof. It doesn't work haha. Thanks!  
**Kat:** Will try to keep up with the regular updates. Unfortunately I have to knit a Harry Potter scarf for a local bookstore that's planning on having a party when the next book comes out, so we shall see how long I can keep up my multitasking…  
**EmilyWillow:** Yes, little Christine gets a taste of her own medicine. It's about time she sees how she unknowingly tortures poor Erik. Thanks for the praise, I'll do my best to keep it up.  
**Cyn: **Ah, a new reviewer! Welcome…and trust me, reviewers are more worthy of love than I am. Yes. Christine is a whore. Not really, I just took great pleasure in randomly typing that. I don't know if you've read any of the reviewer responses on the top of my chapters, but I believe **Maat** brought up that point before, and I gave my reasoning. If you're curious, I suggest looking at that. On second thought, I don't much care if the people of Paris thought Christine was a floozie…she tortured Erik, she can deal with a bit of flames heehee. You're like me, we make up words: Beauty and the Beast-esque (which it was ;) But please don't be hatin'…updates will come soon bwah haha  
**Dove of Night: **Haha! I shall most definitely take a look at your Erik! Christine throws off his groove in my story. Thanks for reading!  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **Oh, there shall be much Erik-happiness when he gets his current little plan going…  
**Soccernat11: **(salutes) Aye Aye, Cap'n! I will continue as I work up wickedness and deviousness for the lovely Erik, who could do with a bit more sneaking around. It makes him happy.  
**Red Rose, Black Ribbon: **Thank you kindly! Yes, this is my first story, so I love to see new reviewers, especially fans of the slightly darker Erik.  
**LadyStrider77:** Glad you like it (wink). Hope you'll stick around to see how it turns out…considering I really don't know for sure the final shape it will take haha.  
**Mianne: **I think it's phantabulous that you enjoy my little tale…I must give all credit to the genius of Leroux. I only took the characters and made them dance to my tune. I am the master of puppets! Dance, Erik, dance! (gets punjabbed)  
**AJNemo: **Erik has picked a card and decided upon torture at the moment. Mind games are fun.  
**Tryptophan: **My younger brother, who is in the room, is questioning my sanity as I laugh myself to tears over the statement "Cease this mindless porkchoppery!" I tried to keep it in, but my lungs were going to burst XD As for my writing style, sadly I hold no control over it. I just sit down and type, and whatever comes out is what I post…so don't give me too much credit for any sort of planning haha. And a fan club! (stares in awe) No way, I'm not worthy! But I do appreciate the love of reviewers; it's what feeds my imagination (grin) Thanks for the lovely review, it's much appreciated! And you should get a badge proclaiming your new guardianship…  
**Kagome1514: **My dear, I will have you know that tonight (gestures dramatically) is officially devoted to reading your fics! Perhaps I can get inspiration from your writings to fight off the ever-present writers block!  
**Clever Lass: **Thanks for giving it a read! I'm glad you found my story, and I hope to hear what you think about my future chapters (if I can ever get my mind off of martial arts and back onto writing)  
**Mianne: **(gasps) A loyal reviewer? My thanks! I'm glad you enjoy it, and I hope to hear your opinions in the future as well. People like you keep me in line haha (wink)  
**InuLvr7: **Alas, I have no editor (sigh). Thanks for reading, new reviewers make me happy!

**Hoping to perhaps get another update before I have to do vacation bible school next week…but if I cannot, please hang in there! I will be sure to jot down ideas as I force small children to make macaroni pictures shaped like Jesus.

* * *

**

**Chapter Ten: The Seeds of Madness**

The search had continued nonstop for almost a week and Raoul was at his wit's end. Dust and grime had been tracked into his given room in mucky footprints, a testament to his nervous pacing. Dirty clothing lay strewn about the floor; he could not bother himself with washing them when he could be looking for his fiancée. Madame Giry had convinced him to bathe the dust from himself countless times, however. She had been quick to proclaim that he looked as if he had crawled through hell and back. It wasn't far from the truth.

Numerous times during his hunt, Raoul had found himself wandering into the ruined lair of the Opera Ghost. He did not expect to find Christine there, especially after the third time he combed through it. Somehow he was simply drawn to the place.

The exterior of the eerie underground home had been marred with black sooty streaks from the flames that had been set to it. The windows overlooking the lake had been thoroughly shattered; not one piece of jagged glass remained. They seemed to gape like open wounds. The inside of the house was in no better shape. Furniture lay broken and torn, priceless works of art were thrown haphazardly about, and splintered pieces of musical instruments lay scattered throughout the rooms. Everything was covered in ashes. The only thing that remained was the pipes of the organ, which were twisted and warped from the heat of the flames that had been set to it.

The house seemed to cry out in pain and fury, its haunting air sending shivers down Raoul's spine. The air was stagnant and choked his lungs, making it hard to breathe. And yet he had returned time and again to roam the halls in search of something, perhaps a clue as to where Christine had been spirited away to. He had discovered no note explaining her absence, and the house certainly revealed nothing. It only seemed to echo his moan of defeat the last time he had stalked its depths for his lost love.

His body had finally succumbed to fatigue, and his numb feet had dragged himself back to his room, where he found himself at the moment. He laid sprawled across his bed, muddy boots hanging off the edge as he stared blankly at the ceiling with gritty eyes. His muscles ached and tingled as numb limbs regained feeling.

Mere weariness had long since been replaced by exhaustion, and Raoul had ignored it for as long as he could. Now, when he finally let his guard down, everything caught up to him. His eyes stung as hot tears of frustration formed. Scrubbing at them angrily with the back of a grubby hand, he took a shuddering breath.

_Searching the Opera aimlessly will not bring Christine back. He has her; I know it. But I cannot do anything unless I know where to look!_

It didn't help that everyone else believed him to be a raving lunatic. Madame Giry and her daughter kindly provided fresh clothing and food for him, offering comforting words when he reached all new heights of despair. But he knew they thought him mad. He knew Madame Giry had some mysterious relationship to the Opera Ghost, and had expected her to at least entertain the idea that his obituary could be an elaborate scheme to capture innocent Christine. She had merely shaken her head at the suggestion, telling him gently that not everything in life had to be a conspiracy.

Talk of the mad hunt for Christine Daae had not ended with the immediate search party members. While wandering through the cellars, Raoul had heard the ballet rats gossiping above him as they warmed up for rehearsal. Their shrill twittering voices easily reached him where he paused right below the stage.

"I think she simply grew tired of him and ran off to find another man. He is rather handsome, and he has money, but if he's not giving her what she needs-" Obnoxious giggles interrupted the lewd insinuation. Raoul had wondered if he had ever felt the need to physically harm someone so strongly in his life.

Just because they lived together didn't mean they _slept_ together. _I rarely ever stayed in my house over night the whole time she lived there! _

He had realized the danger of keeping Christine in his home while they were unmarried. The aristocracy would certainly look down upon it as sinful, but Raoul could not send her away to live with his relatives after he had just won her. _At least I know I've done nothing wrong. Everyone else can think what they please. _

_And worrying about it now won't bring Christine back. _

He sighed heavily in defeat; for now. No matter the odd stares he received or the gossip that followed him, however, Raoul de Chagny was determined not to give up. He had fought for Christine once and triumphed; he would win her back again.

All he could do was recover his strength and continue his hunt for the phantom.

XXXXXXXXX

_Sleep. Sleep is lovely. I've missed sleep._

Those were the first thoughts that greeted Erik as he awoke the next morning. Or he supposed it was morning. It didn't much matter. _Not like I have any appointments to keep._

For a few moments he simply laid there in the dark silken sheets, staring at the ceiling and thanking his insight to get a real bed. The coffin had been burned and rendered useless anyway. _Beds are just much more comfortable_, he thought in his happy haze, _although I suppose it does take away from the theme I had going. But I do live in a grave. Perhaps a coffin added to that would be overdoing it._

He had been so exhausted that he had barely taken time to strip down to his pants, tossing the rest of his clothing haphazardly about the room. The mask remained on, yet he still slept better than he had in months. He sighed and stretched his whole body slowly, reveling in the glorious feeling of rested muscles. The knots and tension that had steadily built up and resided in him during his relapse into chronic insomnia had been greatly relieved; the few hours of rest he had managed had worked wonders.

With a groan he sat up and sung his bare feet over the edge of the bed. Stretching once more, he took off the skull mask and scrubbed at his eyes. When he took his hands away he noticed black smears on them. The makeup that had darkened his eyes remained on.

"Ew. Smooth, Erik," he grumbled to himself.

Tossing his mask to the side, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom to wash. The crispness of the cool water on his face managed to sweep away the aftermath of sleep, clearing the happy fog his mind had settled into and leaving him alert.

His newfound energy and motivation rushed back to him, replacing his flat golden gaze with a mischievous glint. Today was the day that his fun would begin anew. The frustration and anger of the night before had vanished, replaced with the burning desire of old.

He needed to get out and show the fools that crawled through the depths of his Opera that he meant business.

Quickly dressing himself in a crisp new suit and cravat, he hopped slightly in place as he pulled on his leather boots. He stalked to his wardrobe and chose a pure black cloak, twirling it around his broad shoulders and securing it swiftly. Rummaging through the many suits and cloaks, he suddenly paused. Beginning at one end and moving to the other twice, he slammed the door in frustration.

_WHERE is my fedora!_

_I can't go terrorize people without it. I need it. It's my trademark. It'd be like going out without my mask. _His mind buzzed angrily as he pouted slightly, biting his lower lip.

_What a beautiful beginning to the day. _

Snarling and working himself into quite a temper, Erik stormed out of his room and slammed the door behind him. He stopped in his tracks when he realized he had forgotten his mask; he had to ruin his grand entrance as he went back into his room sheepishly and donned the black silk mask he had become accustomed to wearing.

Once again in the sitting room, Erik searched under every piece of furniture for his fedora. With no luck, he crossed his arms across his chest with a rumbling growl. His stomach echoed it and he stared down in surprise.

_I'm hungry? How long has it been since I was hungry?_

Deciding not to question it, he allowed his anger to melt away at the prospect of food. His feet automatically led him down the shadowy hallways to the kitchen. A glowing, warm light flooded from within. _Christine's doing_, he thought as he stood in the doorway and squinted slightly to let his eyes adjust.

When they did, the sight before him made his anger flare once again into life like a stoked fire.

"What are you doing with my fedora!" Echoes of his deep snarl reverberated around the small room.

Christine stood before him, frozen in shock. The black fedora was clutched in her little white hands and she looked down at it after a moment as if she had only just realized what he had said.

"I-I was just cleaning up a bit…"

Stalking forward swiftly, Erik snatched the hat from her hands and glared menacingly down at her. His gaze made her take a step back from him before she regained her composure. She met his fury with her own. Her eyebrows knit together and her beautiful chocolate eyes hardened as she opened her mouth to protest against her unfair treatment.

"Well pardon me, monsieur! I was simply keeping house for you, considering you've been asleep for two days. Forgive me, good monsieur, for being so entirely bored out of my mind that I must resort to doing your housework like your servant. And by all means forgive this unworthy soul for touching your sacred fedora," her voice dripped with sarcasm.

His eyes narrowed at her tone, but she met his glare for what seemed like hours, her red lips pressed together in a thin line. Her chest heaved with emotion and her dainty hands were white-knuckled as she clenched them. He applauded her façade, for he could detect the slightest tremble to the edge of her lips.

He found it increasingly difficult to maintain his hold on his anger; it seemed to slip through his fingers like water: the harder he tried to keep his grip on it, the more it disappeared. It was replaced with another emotion that had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to argue with the captivating young woman before him; an emotion that made his blood burn pleasantly in his veins and his breath catch in his lungs.

It scared him much more than his temper ever had.

Christine's expression softened and she frowned slightly, appearing confused about something she had read in his eyes. Determined not to reveal more than he desired to at the moment, Erik turned smoothly and donned his fedora as he made his way to the pantry. Grabbing a croissant and secreting it in his cloak pocket, he took great care not to meet those curious chocolate eyes as they followed his every movement. He needed to put some distance between them before he did something he would regret.

_Since when have I worried about being too close to her? Isn't that what I want?_

He wanted her with him; he needed her to be by his side in order to survive. He had taken her from her home with the vicomte to be his own, his little songbird, caged underground for eternity. But he hadn't taken into account the dark emotions that such power over her drew forth.

_And she could certainly try to keep her innocent doe eyes to herself_, he thought moodily. Having her eyes on him certainly didn't send thrills through his heated body. Of course not. That would be silly.

"Erik?" the questioning tone of her wavering voice drew his eyes back to hers against his will.

His blood seemed to roar in his ears as he took in the innocent curiosity in her stare. Sweeping over gracefully to her, he took her hand delicately in his own and brushed a polite kiss upon it.

"Forgive me, I'm…not exactly a morning person," he said smoothly, still bowed slightly over her fingers.

Christine shivered. It wasn't in fear, and Erik knew it. Peering up carefully from under the brim of his fedora, he caught a glimpse of the same dark look that was in his eyes reflected in hers.

It was gone in an instant as she hastily recovered her composure.

"It's not morning," she pointed out, her voice wavering minutely as she slid her hand out from his.

Straightening to his full height, he shrugged almost apologetically.

Changing the subject quickly as he backed away he asked, "I'm going on an errand; would you like anything?"

"I'd like to be released," she responded automatically, but with little conviction in her voice.

"As would I," Erik mumbled as he departed, eager to remove himself from her spellbinding gaze.

Christine was left to stare at his retreating form and wonder what on earth he had meant.

XXXXXXXXX

Since the beginning of time, darkness has held a fascinating influence over the uneasy and weak of mind. The prospect of the unknown and unseen breeds phantasms in the mind; shadows become the grasping hands of the dead reaching forth from the grave, silhouettes form demons in the gloom, and any noise resembles the rattle of dry bones or the death cry of a creature.

Darkness is uncertainty. Darkness is fear.

Darkness was Erik's lover. Her soft caresses soothed his anxious soul; he took solace in the oblivion of her embrace.

Everyone was made equal in darkness.

Everyone, perhaps, except the vicomte.

Erik had spent the better part of an hour simply trailing the man through the cellars of the Opera House while leisurely enjoying his breakfast. Growing tired of the vicomte's graceless fumblings through the gloom, Erik contented himself with catching the latest news of the Opera. Although he could just as easily have infiltrated the office of the ignorant managers, it was less work to simply listen in on the ballet rats. And Erik was all for being economical and efficient.

Brushing the last of the crumbs of the croissant from his gloved fingers, he had settled himself along a rafter in a shadowy corner of the dormitories. Stretching out along the beam on his back and resting his head in his interwoven fingers, he waited until Madame Giry allowed the young dancers a short break.

Rushing back to their rooms, the slim girls stopped along the way to tiredly rub at painful feet.

"I swear, Madame Giry is working us with a vengeance," one particularly inelegant ballet rat moaned in complaint as she removed her shoes.

"Quiet, Adele. We could be doing much worse than this. Poor Meg is still running around searching the cellars at the request of the vicomte," came the sharp reply of a slightly older girl.

"But he's mad!" whined Adele shrilly, "The Opera Ghost is dead and all he's managing is to work Madame Giry into a fury with his ravings, which she takes out on us!"

"The Vicomte de Chagny doesn't believe the Phantom is dead," the older girl pointed out. "He wouldn't keep hunting for him if he didn't. And what does it matter if he's mad? He has influence, so they do what he tells them."

"But the phantom-" Adele began, only to be pinched sharply by a passing blonde.

"Don't talk about _him_! It's bad luck, and two girls have already sprained an ankle," the passerby hissed before continuing on her way.

Nimbly rising to a silent crouch, Erik peered down at the steadily emptying dormitory.

_They still fear me, do they? _The realization sent warm shivers down his spine, drawing a smirk to his face.

Suddenly he paused…_The insolent boy's ravings?_

Like a hunter smelling weakness in his prey, Erik's eyes narrowed in pleasure as he felt his blood course through his veins.

The hunt had begun, and suddenly the role of predator was once again restored to the golden eyed creature of darkness.

XXXXXXXXX

Raoul had achieved little sleep since the initiation of the search for Christine. His vision had begun to fade at the edges, and his drooping eyelids waged a constant war with his determination to continue combing the cellars.

Unfortunately, with his fading vitality came fading assistance. The police had apologized profusely to him before retracting their services, assuring him that they had done all that could possibly be done. _Except find Christine_, he thought dryly.

At least Meg had remained loyal to his cause. She still brought him fresh clothing and warm food, but she no longer relieved him in his search. She had an opera to prepare for.

"I'm sorry," she had apologized sincerely, "but I just don't see how Christine could still be here if we haven't found her yet. Perhaps she is already at home waiting for your return."

The hopeful suggestion did little to soothe the vicomte.

With a crash Raoul found himself tangled in discarded beams of wood from the Opera's recent reconstruction. Recalling himself to the present, he stood and brushed off his clothes, although it did little more than cover his hands with more grime. He picked up his fallen lantern and made sure the flame still burned inside before cautiously resuming his mission.

His lethargy tugged at his limbs, making it difficult to take each step. More than once he almost dropped his lantern from numb fingers; that made him shudder: he did not know how he could find his way back without the flickering light.

A cold wind rippled through his cloak and he tugged it closer around him with his free hand. He had become used to this; the Opera House was surprisingly drafty in the lower levels, and random winds sapped the warmth from his shivering body.

He was not, however, used to the voices that traveled on that wind.

Echoing sighs seemed to reverberate from every direction, causing Raoul's tortured mind to twist the shadowed shapes before him into ghouls and specters.

A clattering noise behind him plunged Raoul to the fringes of panic as a moaning wind extinguished the shuddering flame of the lantern.

Darnkess enveloped him, and his mind howled although he clenched his jaw painfully to keep the noise trapped behind his teeth. He stood completely still, his eyes opening and closing madly as if unbelieving that they were actually open.

"_Why so silent, good monsieur?" _a mocking voice taunted from the darkness to his left.

Spinning spontaneously to face it and drawing his sword, Raoul's chest heaved as he fought to capture the breath that refused to enter his lungs properly.

"Wh-Who's there!"

"_It is I," _the voice whispered in his right ear. He could feel its breath along his neck, and he felt bile rise in his throat.

Taking a quick and uncoordinated slash towards where the voice should have been, Raul stumbled in the darkness and almost lost his balance completely.

Ringing laughter pummeled his senses from all sides.

"_Afraid…?" _The voice took on a husky whisper. Raoul didn't need to see to tell a pointed grin followed the words.

"I am not afraid! You are the coward! Show yourself," Raoul challenged. His hands trembled as he held his sword before him in the pitch black.

"_You know where I am," _the voice breathed down his neck. The swinging slash Raoul made towards it did not make contact with anything but air.

"WHERE!" Raoul had grown tired of this game; his nerves were frayed and at the breaking point.

"_I am -here-," _A thousand voices repeated the last word around the room.

Raoul shook with a combination of terror and fury.

"Wh-where is 'here'!"

A moment of deafening silence reigned when Raoul only heard the frantic beating of his heart against his ribs.

"Where?" he questioned again, more confidently.

………_Inside your mind………_

His eyes widened in surprise, then clamped shut in terror. The young vicomte crumpled to his knees, clutching his head in his hands and squeezing it as if it could drown out the voice that had come to reside within his skull.

"No…NO…NO…" he whispered frantically, rocking in the darkness, "Not you…not you…"

Erik's soul sang with the sound of broken crying from the defeated form before him.

He had sown the seeds of madness in the mind of the vicomte. _Patience, now_, he advised himself as his catlike eyes gleamed in anticipation.

_Let the boy be his own undoing._


	11. Madness and Curiosity

**Wow, lots of reviews for this chapter!**

**Clever Lass: **Alas, I hit a rather rough bit of writer's block in the first part of the chapter. I sat and stared for two days, so it was a wonder that I even managed to redeem it as you say. Thanks kindly, the seeds of madness was something I stumbled upon and thought "ah, Erik-esque" (which is not a word). I try to keep the tension between E/C but I don't want to fall into the random fluff trap…but I will try to give more of that and of course crazy Raoul.  
**LadyStrider77: **I do feel sorry for what my mind puts Raoul through…and yet what Erik wants is what Erik gets (shrug). Tad nutso? Understatement. And yet we love him haha.  
**EmilyWillow: **Thank you! You flatter me: I just sit down and write. Real authors have to do a lot more work than I (grin).  
**Mianne: **I'm actually surprising myself with this…sometimes I read back and I think "dang, that's sinister and morbid" haha. Guess this brings out other sides of me. And thank you for the praise! You have me quite motivated to write…  
**Fireflyjunction: **Meg is daft. Sometimes she can't help it (tear). And yes, Erik and Christine have some major issues. And Raoul is…well he will be facing quite some interesting obstacles in his search for Christine (aka he's crazy). Erik is situated in a lovely graveyard close to the Opera House…and that's all I can really say for now. Fluff is something used to lighten my angst, so I shall try to get some in here pretty soon. I have to get everything lined up first. And Christine makes her appearance! Why were you in the hospital? Is everything all right? Don't bother yourself with reviewing if something like that comes up! (shakes finger at you)  
**Dove of Night: **Had to be done. MMM, evil: my favorite seasoning!  
**Final-Threshold: **Well dang! Get them seeds of madness out! Haha! Stabbing Raoul would be the easy way…this way Erik doesn't have to get blood on his gloves (evil grin)  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **Yep, Erik isn't above killing the boy. He just prefers not having to bother with touching him. And this way things will work out quite nicely…  
**Kagome1514: **Thanks, and trust me: you're on my to-do list. And that's not meant in a dirty way…(nervous glances around) What I'm trying to say is that I'll be reading your stories whenever I get a chance (aka when my mom isn't telling me I need to be doing summer work )  
**PhantomsHeart: **Shall I take it that those words held great meaning for you? (raised eyebrow) I stared at your review for the longest time, then I just collapsed into a heap of giggles that brought my brother running haha  
**Sapphire Tearz: **Thank you! (bows) I hope to see you later on as I fight my school-work procrastination with fanfiction!  
**InuLvr7:** One of the joys of fanfiction is that there is already a built-in fanbase. Or phanbase. I doubt I could get this many reviews without that already in place (grins). Thanks for the praise and the offer! Alas, I happen to do my writing at midnight, and when I finish I post pretty much right away, so trusty Word is the only editor I tend to stop to use lol. I'd never make it as a real author: my editors would hate my guts.  
**Maat: **I'm glad you approve! Erik's skills are quite underrated in most fics, so I'm going to try my best to get them back in the picture. Leroux's Erik is just too overwhelmingly awesome to not put in every once in a while, at least.  
**Exclamation Pointx3: **Why thank you! I'll do my best, and I hope to hear from you again. You certainly sound excited lol.  
**Soccernat11: **Yes, I tend to prefer this way of getting Raoul out of the picture. I couldn't see Erik letting him off easily by just killing him. So we shall see how his sneaky little plan develops…(runs off to write more, as requested!)  
**Light Barrer: **(grins) My thanks; I'm very glad you like it. Thank you for the comment as well! I particularly enjoyed the maniacal laughter haha! I hope to see you around  
**AJNemo: **(sighs) I know it. It really is rather scary though. I'm usually not this morbid and all, but I suppose this is just me showing my true colors…BWAH HAHA! Ahem. Sorry.  
**Erikphan24601: **(blinks in surprise) Wow! I got a "SQUEE!" That's amazing! And killing the fop? That would be too simple, too nice, too un-Erik for my taste. I'm glad you're reading! Thanks!  
**A Phantom Moon: **Thank you for the great honor! I will do my best, so stay with me!

**Thank you all for the encouragement! It makes my little black heart happy...and motivated!**

**Just a quick chapter in order to get things going...my plans unfortunately take a while to develop fully.

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**

**Chapter Eleven: Madness and Curiosity **

The Paris Opera House was in an uproar. People milled about every which way, making the place resemble a stirred ant hill. Chaos and confusion was tangible in the air as shouts and surprised screams rang through the halls.

The Vicomte de Chagny had been found by a group of ballet rats.

Actually, he had found them. Their shrieks could be heard throughout the entire first floor, which naturally called forth every other nosey dancer and anyone else in the immediate vicinity. Messengers were designated from among the ranks of the swarming bystanders, who rushed to call anyone who had ears and feet to walk on to come and see the broken figure of a man that had crawled forth from the dark cellars of the Opera.

"Out of my way! What's all this commotion about?" The circle that had formed parted reluctantly to allow Madame Giry to observe their discovery.

Raoul de Chagny lay curled up on the floor, eyes shut tightly, and rocking slightly in place. His blonde hair had been tinged with grey from dust, and his once handsome face was dirty. His clothes were covered in filth and cobwebs, and the knees of his once stylish pants were scraped and scuffed. Meaningless and unintelligible words escaped from his parted lips with a trembling moan. He ran his fingernails down his cheeks, leaving behind red whelps.

Meg pushed forward to stand beside her mother, and gasped with fright.

"Oh, Maman!"

"Silence, Meg," Madame Giry commanded in a raised voice, "Everyone out."

No one moved an inch. All eyes were still trained on the shaking form before them.

"LEAVE!" The pound of the cane upon the floorboards flung everyone from their daze, and the crowd quickly dissipated.

Turning once more to her daughter, Madame Giry lowered her voice, "Meg, dear…please help me bring him to his room."

It was a difficult task to accomplish. Not only was the man heavy, but he recoiled and screeched at the merest touch. After much struggling, the women had managed to drag him to his room and lay him in his bed.

He thrashed and moaned under the blankets as Meg watched in horror.

"Maman, what has happened? Why is he-" Meg began, but her mother interrupted her.

"No questions now, go and call the police. They must search the cellars for clues as to why the vicomte has fallen into this…this _state_," Madame Giry gestured with her hand, not knowing what exactly to call the writhing form before her. "Then fetch the doctor."

Meg leaped to her feet nimbly and ran off to do as she was instructed.

Alone in the room with the broken man, Madame Giry shook her head and sighed.

"Will this never end?"

XXXXXXXXX

After thoroughly searching each cellar, the police found what they were looking for. A tattered and bloody dress lay next to a discarded and extinguished lantern. Some golden locks of hair were found nearby; apparently the vicomte had found his discovery too much to handle and torn his hair from its very roots.

As grisly and unsavory as the prospect was, the chief of police decided it would be best to have someone identify the grey dress. Since the vicomte was currently being transported to his mansion to recuperate and be closely monitored, Meg Giry was hunted down and presented with the article of clothing.

Her cry of despair chilled the chief to his marrow.

Christine Daae, the beautiful and charming singer who had captivated the heart of Paris, was pronounced dead.

XXXXXXXX

Perhaps the most difficult thing to do when taken captive and confined is to wait. Human nature lends more toward raging against imprisonment and howling defiance if nothing else proves effective. It is not natural to be caged. No human will accept it willingly.

And yet this is exactly what Christine Daae was forced to do. Since the day of her capture, she had bided her time wisely, always keeping a watchful eye out for an escape from her prison. Silently she waited and watched warily. She had no other option.

Despair had begun to settle over her like an oppressive mantle. Erik, her captor, her fallen angel of music, was constantly vigilant when she was within his eyesight.

Tonight those golden eyes were not present, and they had not been for hours.

Christine had thanked God in heaven that she had been given an opportunity such as the one presented to her. She went right to work.

She cracked the door and peered warily out of her room. She had heard the sound of some sort of heavy mechanism rolling, and after long moments of complete silence she concluded that Erik had left her alone in his home.

Discovering the sitting room to be empty, Christine grabbed a small cloth bag beside her door and tiptoed out into the flickering candlelight. Glancing about nervously, she took a single thick candle in trembling hands and made her way toward the kitchen. More than once her erratic breathing caused the candle flame to sputter and hiss, which only made her heart pound against her ribcage. _The last thing I need is to be in darkness…_The mere thought made her shiver.

She made it safely to the kitchen. _Safely? What, did I expect him to spontaneously appear behind me out of the shadows?_ The lump in her throat told her she did.

Christine attempted to steady herself with a deep breath as she moved swiftly to the pantry and stuffed food into her bag with shaking hands. If she found a way out, she wanted to be sure she wouldn't starve to death once free.

_Not "if" I find a way out: when I find a way out. _Her mental pep talk did little to calm her nerves.

The first step of her escape finished, Christine stood for a moment in contemplation of her next step. She had thought earlier that a window would offer a good escape route. A bit of a fall would be a small price to pay for her freedom. And yet every room she had entered had no windows of any sort, and the slightly damp and chilly air of the place seemed to suggest it was underground. _Why did that surprise me? _Christine wondered. _He did always have a thing for the darkness of the grave._

There were numerous rooms in the extensive lair that she had never even set foot in; most of the doors remained locked, and any one of them could conceal an exit. Bile rose in her throat; she could never force her way into any room that Erik did not want her to enter. The results could be…unsavory.

Christine swallowed hard and shook her head to clear it of the worries that threatened to drown her in sorrow.

_Think, Christine…_

Erik had only left the lair a handful of times since she had been taken captive. Every time he left she recalled the sound of his door opening and closing, followed by the grinding noise of a mechanism.

One exit was in his room. _But how can I get into his room? Surely he wouldn't leave it open._

Her spirits as low as ever, Christine trudged to Erik's door and held out a hand to try the handle.

A rustling noise from her room down the hallway sent her spinning, eyes shooting wide open in terror. Her heart threatened to crawl out of her throat. At least that strangled the cry she had tried desperately to release.

She stood there for what seemed like hours, her heart pounding erratic rhythms in her breast and her limbs shaking like mad. Her knees stubbornly refused to hold her up, and she was forced to drop her food bag and brace herself against the wall.

Wax from the candle shaking in her hand dripped down and burned her finger, snapping her out of her terror-induced daze and back into the equally frightening reality.

_I need to hurry. If Erik comes back and finds me loitering about his doorway…_

She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought.

Swooping down to snatch the bag she had dropped, Christine pushed her brief scare from her mind. _My imagination is running away with me. There is no secret doorway in my room for Erik to come through. I already combed every inch of it a thousand times over. _

Regaining her feeble confidence, Christine braced herself and tried the door to Erik's room.

It opened to her lightest touch, creaking softly as it swung inward.

Her mouth hung agape as she stared wide-eyed into the darkness within.

The sputtering candle in her hand illuminated only a small part of the room, which proved to be rather empty. A few articles of clothing lay scattered over the floor and over a black leather armchair, along with crumpled pieces of paper with musical notes scrawled upon them. The corner of a bed covered with black silken sheets was visible. _And unmade_, she thought wryly. _At least he's sleeping again…_

Finding herself having concerned and protective feelings for her captor, Christine bit her tongue in shame. She had Raoul, who at this moment was probably searching frantically for her. She had promised herself to Raoul. Raoul needed her.

_Erik needs you_, the contrary voice in her head insisted.

With an exasperated sigh, she ignored her confusing feelings and brought her mind to the task at hand. Entering the room cautiously, searching every shadow as if it would be hiding a masked man, Christine set her bag down in a corner and began to run her hand along the smooth, bare walls in search of a hidden doorway. The candle she held cast its feeble light against the walls, and she placed her eyes mere inches from them as she looked for the seams that would betray the presence of her exit.

The air in the room seemed to thicken suddenly, restricting her breathing as her candle guttered and hissed before the death of its light.

Christine heard an insistent thumping sound that reverberated in her ears. It took a moment to realize that it was her heart. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to run; she spun quickly to face the doorway. The rectangle of light welcomed her, and she took a few stumbling steps toward it before it winked out of existence. The lock clicked shut. That single noise caused her blood to freeze in her veins.

There was no escape.

His anger was tangible. Christine's stomach churned; she felt sick.

_This is it. It's over. My God. It's through. _Her thoughts shot like lightning across her consciousness. She trembled violently as she willed her muscles to support her. She would not die on her knees.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" The words crackled with barely checked fury.

The complete darkness surrounding Christine seemed to fill her lungs. She parted her lips and tried desperately to draw air into her burning body, but she failed.

Her silence only seemed to further anger him.

"Come now, why the silence? I'm quite certain you have a good reason to be sniffing around my room," his voice dripped with sarcasm, mocking her.

A breath of air rushed to fill her lungs in an audible shuddering gasp. That was good; her head had begun to swim from lack of oxygen. Words were still out of her grasp.

A moment of complete silence passed. Christine prayed frantically to God and every saint she could think of as hot tears threatened to form in her eyes. _Father, I will be with you soon…_

Suddenly she sensed that he was right before her, although she had not heard him move. Christine felt the heat of his body heightened tenfold by the fiery anger that boiled just beneath his calm exterior.

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know. And what a curious little kitten you have been…" he purred at her, his voice like velvet covered steel, "You wandered right into the wolf's den."

A strangled whimper escaped her parted lips. She squeezed her eyes shut and hung her head, although she couldn't see him in the darkness.

A gloved finger found its way to her chin, tilting it back up firmly.

"What was that, my dear?" The gloved finger stroked her smooth jaw gently, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. She had to fight to keep her head still and not lean into his caress.

The anger that welled up at the unconscious acceptance of his touch loosened Christine's tongue.

"I…I didn't say any-" she began in a weak, but heated, whisper.

His finger upon her tremulous lips stopped her speech. For a moment he seemed to be taken aback at her shaking. He cupped her chin in his hand and ran his thumb over her lower lip, which only caused it to tremble more as she took a shuddering breath.

"I believe what you said was that you are sorry for nosing about where you do not belong," he said firmly.

Christine nodded, hot tears searing trails down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut once more.

"And that you will accept your punishment for your trespass," the finality in Erik's tone caused visions of grisly torture and death to dance through Christine's mind.

A sob escaped her, and she quickly bit her lower lip hard to stifle it. She tasted the metallic tang blood.

_I will not die crying and begging for mercy._

With a swift movement she found the feathery caresses of the hand along her jaw turn to iron. He gripped her chin and slid his other arm around her waist to pull her to him, pressing her against his body and causing her to gasp in surprise.

He simply held her there for a moment as his thumb ran over her ragged lower lip. He cursed at the wet sensation of blood upon his glove.

"Don't do that," he whispered, concern heavy in his tone.

His warm breath and sudden closeness confused Christine, and she struggled slightly to back out of his grasp, turning her head. Her heart refused to calm itself, and a strange heat was beginning to spread through her veins.

His arm around her remained firm and he caught her chin again gently, turning her back to face him in the darkness.

Desperate to keep from sobbing, she bit her lip, drawing blood once more, and tried to calm herself. Her breast heaved with emotion. _I…I need to get away._ She didn't fear for her life any longer. She feared her emotions.

Erik growled something darkly. Suddenly her lips were no longer hers as Erik took possession of them. His gentle kiss at first sent a stab of pain through her abused lip, but it quickly dissipated as heat rushed throughout her trembling body.

She didn't pull away.

He pulled back slowly and she could feel the ghostly touch of his breath upon her lips. His gloved hand returned to her lips and caressed them as he whispered wryly, "I won't have you bleeding on the lovely dress I bought you."

Christine knew he could feel her shiver, and prayed that he didn't know the dark emotions that caused it. _How long has it been since I've been held? Kissed? _The months she had spent in solitude pressed down upon her, causing a new cascade of tears to accompany the guilt she felt. She liked being in Erik's arms. But it was wrong to feel that way. Very wrong.

"Oh, Christine," Erik sighed, dropping his cynical tone. He cupped her face in his hands and wiped away her hot tears with his thumbs. "Don't be afraid…"

He had released his hold upon her. Yet she did not back away. Instead she leaned forward to rest her head upon his chest, sobs wracking her slim frame as she clutched the fabric of his vest in her fists. Overcoming the initial shock, Erik cradled her against him, gently stroking her chocolate curls and murmuring soothing words into her ear.

She had tried to escape, and realized she could not. Not because she had not managed to find the exit. Because she was tied there…to him.


	12. The Sweet Oblivion of Sleep

**Wow. That's all I can say. And readers should know by now that I'm long-winded. Do you see that number of reviews up there? I cannot express in words my gratitude for all of you who not only read my story, but take the time to drop me a line. It is for you all that I continue to weave my little world of darkness and insanity!**

**Sapphire Tearz: **Yes, Erik is evil. Don't be too confused, it's not that complex (complexity isn't really my strong point). Erik set things up so everyone thinks Christine is dead. She isn't, which you pointed out haha. But now Raoul is crazy, and no one will believe him even if he says she still lives and wants to search for her…hopefully this chapter will clear things up, so no worries!  
**Cyn: **Writers block had me in its steel jaws on chapter 10. Hopefully I've shown it who's boss now.  
**A Phantom Moon: **(bows) Why thank you! Be sure to stick with me and let me know what you think! I need someone to keep me in line, haha!  
**EmilyWillow: **My romantic tends to be angsty-twisted-romantic, but thanks bunches! I'm certain you could write very well, better than I could; sometimes what happens in our minds can surprise us. I mean…through this story I discovered that I'm a morbid, dark, sinister, and devious freak lol. Thanks for the review!  
**Mianne: **Thank you for the praise! I try my best, but I still really can't take credit for it. The characters are who they are…I just put it down in words. And of course I don't want to do a purely ALW story. Gotta give a nod to Leroux when possible!  
**Faust: **No worries about reviewing, as long as you continue to read then I'm happy! I think you can join the club of people who enjoy seeing Raoul suffer like he is: the Morbid and Sinister Club (which doesn't exist, but let's pretend). Thanks!  
**Pertie: **Wow, your number one favorite? I'm more than honored! I'll do my best to stay true to the story, and I hope to hear from you again so you can let me know what you think!  
**Soccernat11: **Nah, Raoul was like that because of the phantom. The dress was just there to give the police reason to believe he had gone mad over the loss of his fiancée. Thanks for the review, and I hope you'll stick around to let me know what you think about my future chapters! I rely on the regulars to let me know what they really think…  
**Mam'selle Erin: **Hmm, I hadn't noticed that I change tense that badly! (gasps) First time someone pointed it out as well…that's what I get for writing late at night. I do, however, know that I change from "she had waited for her time to escape" to "she walked into the kitchen", but that is only to let you know what happened in the past. I'll keep an eye on that in the future, though…  
**Fireflyjunction: **Thanks for the heads up there! (Imagines Raoul tied to a sled in the freezing snow. Sinister grin) And wow, I'm glad you're okay! Christine works hard to think. Erik likes the thrill of frightening people…and no one mourns the fop. No one. BWAH HAHA. Ahem.  
**Clever Lass: **Thanks; if I can try to keep from falling prey to writers block then I should be able to keep this up haha. And I try to keep Erik from being a whiney wuss. It's just not him. That's more Raoul's style, but I even try to keep that to a minimum. I just don't like whiney guys (shrug).  
**Inkpems: **Thank you! (forces brain to work on next chapter)  
**Erikphan24601: **Thanks! I'll try my best to update soon…so hang in there, please!  
**No One Mourns the Wicked: **I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'm actually surprised that anything at all happened in this chapter considering I wrote it in the dead of night…oh wait, that's normal. Never mind.  
**Music Angel no. 24601: **I do feel sorry for Raoul sometimes, since he does care for Christine and you can't really help who you love…but I put him through fire anyway. And you notice this isn't an R/C fic (winks) Go Erik!  
**Orianna-2000: **Indeed, Erik wasn't going to let her disobey his command to not bite her lip. And I think this was their first kiss, even though it wasn't the typical ultra-romantic situation haha. I get confused with reading so many fics at the same time as well. I hope you'll continue to read!  
**InuLvr7: **I'm glad you're happy! Yep, I'm female, and I like Erik much better than Raoul…although I do feel slightly sorry for the guy when I put him through hell. But I do it anyway. Thanks for the review!  
**Ivy: **Yep, this is my first one! That's why I'm having a rather hard time with things, but I'll stick it through. Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**Kagome1514: **I've discovered that bright and happy fluff is completely beyond my grasp. I like the darker stuff, apparently lol. Thank you for the compliment, and I'm glad my humble writing can call forth some emotion on occasion! I will try my best!  
**Tryptophan: **Cowboy hat, fedora…kinda close lol. And yes, I surprise myself with the many ways I torture Raoul (who I really don't hate. Okay, maybe subconsciously.) I'm glad you're still keeping up with my insane ramblings! And I'm quite worried I'll be stoned to death for not going full-out EC fluffness, but you know what? I'll chance it! I like drawing things out, it makes each moment of closeness and each touch that much more important and meaningful. Or so I think. (dodges stones) Thank you for the praise, and look (points at number of reviews) Never saw that one coming. Thanks bunches!  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **I think I have a steady following of Raoul-haters haha! The poor guy…I put him through hell, but you know what? Driving people to the brink of insanity is so very Erik. It needed to be done. (evil grin)  
**PhantomsHeart: **As sinister as it sounds, I had to have high and mighty Raoul be found by a group of underclass ballet rats. There's irony there…and entertainment! Once again, Christine is being indecisive. Not surprising there lol. Thanks for the review!

**There seemed to be some confusion as to what exactly happened with Raoul and the phantom in the cellar. It's not really surprising, because I haven't explained it yet! No, Raoul never found the dress, and as we can all see Christine is still alive. A bit of this is explained in this chapter, and I apologize for not including it in the last one. I just didn't want to randomly have this scene before its time. That and it was one in the morning and my brain refused to work any longer.**

**Once again, a late/early update. This chapter is mainly just to explain some things that I wanted to explain but didn't want to ruin the flow of things to do so in the last chapter. But now things are set up and I can quit the angsty-devious-planning-chapters for a while! Raoul is taken care of for the moment, and soon Christine will see that he will not come for her…but that comes later, I promise!

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**Chapter Twelve: The Sweet Oblivion of Sleep**

Erik silently left Christine's room and gently shut the door behind him. A heavy sigh escaped his parted lips. Christine had cried for hours, clinging desperately to him as if he was her last link to life. No amount of comforting words and caresses would stifle the sobs that had wracked her slim body. Then again, Erik had never found himself in the role of the comforter, and so he was rather unsure of how to stem the flow of her tears. In the end she had cried herself into exhaustion, her reddened eyes closing in fitful sleep. Not knowing what else to do for his angel, he had carried her to her room and tucked her into her bed, wiping away the remaining shining tears that clung to her smooth cheeks.

Tears of his own threatened to fall and he bit the inside of his cheek angrily. _She hates it here. She wanted to leave, and I scared her half to death. But I can't let her leave. No amount of tears will change that. She must stay with me in the grave…_

_And now no one will come to find her._

With a slight wince, Erik swung his cape from his shoulders and draped it on the back of a nearby chair. His coat followed it within seconds. A crimson bloom of blood had stained the left sleeve of his crisp white shirt. He growled softly. _It must have bled through._

He rolled his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing a crude bandage over a deep gash on the inside of his forearm. It had bled a great deal, but not enough to be life threatening. Walking to the kitchen to clean and dress the wound, Erik smirked to himself.

_A dress and some blood: a small price to pay for the illusion I have created._

XXXX hours earlier XXX

It had been relatively simple to push the vicomte to the edge of insanity. He was already quite unstable from lack of sleep and his obsessive searching. All Erik had to do was use the darkness to his advantage, throwing his voice to different locations around the boy and taunting him.

Soon the insolent fool was curled up and sobbing on the floor, rending his hair from his head with earsplitting screams, and Erik allowed himself a few moments to watch in sinister amusement. Dark thrills of pleasure coursed through his body and his eyes narrowed in ecstasy; his rival lay before him, broken and suffering at his hands…

Erik was unable to stay and watch, however. He knew he had a short period of time before the man would either bring someone running with his animalistic howls or stumble upon an exit himself. He rushed along the chilly underground passages until he reached a fork in the tunnels. Stopping to glance around briefly and make sure he was not followed, Erik ran his gloved hand along the damp stone of the wall, pressing the release for a trapdoor. It slid shut above him with a grinding groan as he leaped down into the gloom.

He landed in a crouch and allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows. This was the only connection between his new lair and the Opera. The tunnels in this section were newer than the others below the building, and they led off in one direction rather than winding and twisting. They led directly to the graveyard.

Erik had not been idle in his years below the Opera House. Although a good deal of his time was occupied with training and guiding the young Christine and composing his music, he still had time to pursue his hobbies. He had poured all of his extensive knowledge of architecture and skills in masonry into the construction of his graveyard haven. He had known he could not remain below the Opera forever, and had enough foresight to build an even more magnificent lair in a safer location. No one dared to pry in the territory of the dead.

Running once more at a dead sprint, his boots clicking upon stone, Erik made a split-second decision and turned left at the only tunnel that broke away. Taking the right tunnel would lead him to the surface, where he could enter the tomb and find himself in his room. _I'm not going to MY room_, he reminded himself.

He skidded to a halt before crashing headlong into a solid stone wall. Stumbling a bit, he cursed himself. _Didn't know I would get here so fast. Haven't taken this tunnel in quite a while, though._

His long fingers brushed the stone, triggering yet another switch. The stone wall rotated as if on a hinge, and he drew his cloak around himself and strode through the entrance. He was in his cellar, or the equivalent of his cellar. Bottles of expensive wine lined the walls, and crates of candles and other necessities littered the floor. Dust hung heavily over every surface like a downy blanket, and Erik made a mental note to see to that later.

He cracked the door and glanced outside the room. Although his body screamed for him to move and each beat of his heart was a reminder of how little time he had, Erik waited until he was sure Christine was not roaming around. Slipping through the doorway and running in a half-crouch in the shadows of the hallway, he made his way toward Christine's room.

The door was open. The relative shock of this discovery swiftly passed. _She's likely in the kitchen getting some food._ His nerves were frayed nonetheless.

He glided into her room, melding into the shadows as if he were a part of them. His catlike eyes grazed over the entire room as his heart thundered in his chest. _I shouldn't be in here_, the thought raced over his conscious like a flash of lightning.

_You damned fool_, he scoffed at himself. _You MADE this room. You OWN this house. If anyone has a right to be in here, it is you. _

But it had never before been occupied by a woman. It had been transformed; it was no longer even remotely his. He could smell her sweet scent on the furniture and a slight depression on the pillow of her bed was testament to her recent presence. His heart continued its erratic rhythm as he tore his eyes from her bed and walked to her wardrobe.

_Now, you may have a right to be in her room, but you most certainly have no right to paw through her clothes_, a voice of reason pointed out. He ignored it.

After a moment of rustling around and a close encounter with a corset that made him blush madly under his black mask, Erik discovered the dress he was looking for. The grey dress with lace around the bodice was the exact one that Christine had worn when he had found her wandering in the cellars of the Opera.

A sudden noise made Erik freeze in place, holding the dress up in his gloved hands and crouching over a pile of women's clothing. A blush crept once again over his cheeks as he angrily shoved the corset to the back of the wardrobe. _If I have to be caught, I would at least prefer to be caught looking less like a pervert._

No other sound followed the interruption, so Erik hastily folded the dress over his arm and swept out of the room, returning to the cellar. The darkness of the tunnels soon enfolded him, and he took a deep breath of the damp air to calm his nerves.

Half of the plan was accomplished. Now the sand in the hourglass of time worked against him as he rushed to set the other pieces into place.

When Erik once again arrived at the cellar where he had cast the vicomte to the brink of insanity, the aforementioned man was nowhere to be seen. The extinguished lantern and a few locks of blonde hair remained behind, however. Erik's lip rose slightly in a grimace as he kicked the hair that sat by his boot toe away with a suppressed shudder. _The boy could at least keep his grimy hair to himself._

Steadying himself as he caught his breath from the sprint over, he set to work. _If that damned vicomte is on the move, it will only be a matter of minutes before the entire Opera is in an uproar…_

Setting the dress down on the dusty floor, Erik searched the hidden pockets of his cloak. The metal of a long knife hissed softly against the leather of its holder as he drew it. The ripping of fabric followed for a few moments, and soon the beautiful dress was littered with ragged slashes. Peering down at it, he realized it wouldn't be convincing. _No woman could be attacked like that and have her dress completely spotless…_

He peered at the knife, then nodded to himself and removed his cloak and coat, tossing them to the side. He quickly unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the flesh of his inner forearm.

With a fluid motion the blade of the knife danced across his arm and he hissed softly through his teeth at the pain. Crimson blood pooled in its wake.

It was only a matter of moments before his blood stained the grey dress a darker shade in numerous places, droplets of it tainting the pure white of the lace. Erik sat back on his heels and surveyed his handiwork. The sight of Christine's tattered and bloodied dress before him sent a shiver down his spine. Bile rose in his throat as he thought of the monstrosities and violence against his angel that the scene before him suggested. _If it's enough to convince me, it's enough to convince those fools._

Something warm snaked down his left arm, and he realized with a start that he hadn't stemmed the flow of blood that still coursed through the gash freely. Untucking his shirt and using the knife to cut off a strip of it, he clumsily wound it around the wound and tied it, using his teeth to pull it tight. He raised an eyebrow at the sloppy work. _That will have to do. I don't have time to dawdle and dress it thoroughly. _

He took a moment to tuck in his shirt once more and roll down his sleeve, donning his coat and cape after dusting stray cobwebs from them.

Without a second glance back, Erik retreated to the safety of darkness as muffled shouts and screams erupted above him in the Opera House.

He hummed a snatch of a song to himself in glee. _Let the chaos begin._

XXX back to present time for all those who are confused XXX

Sunlight filtered through drawn curtains and fell upon the bed of the Vicomte de Chagny. The obscured dawn served little purpose but to annoy the weary man, who grimaced at the rays that fell upon his face and turned his head to try to avoid them.

The simple movement sent a stab of searing pain through his head. He gasped and winced as sensation returned to his awakening body. Every single muscle in his body both ached and felt like jelly at the same time, his scalp stung in certain places, his hands and knees were covered in tiny abrasions, and his head continued to throb fiercely. A strangled whimper escaped his parched lips.

In a moment a servant was beside him, applying a cold compress to his forehead and frantically sizing him up. Without a word she rushed out of the room and left Raoul in complete solitude. He stared dimly at the ceiling, his eyes glazed over in pain and his eyes sliding in and out of focus.

Soon a brown eye came into his line of vision, staring back into his bloodshot blue orb as cold fingers pried at his eyelids to keep them open. Raoul twitched involuntarily at the contact, and groaned at the pain that followed the motion.

"He seems to be conscious," the man leaning over Raoul muttered to the servant girl beside him, "It doesn't seem that he's fully regained his memory of what happened, though."

Raoul blinked a few times as he brought his eyes into focus on the man. _A doctor_, he determined by the white coat he wore and the professional manner in which he proceeded to poke and prod him.

"Physically he seems fine, just in need of some bed rest for a few days," the doctor mumbled once again to his observer, who nodded her head in agreement.

"Wh-What is going on?" Raoul forced himself to speak. His throat was raw for some unknown reason and his words came out as a croak.

Completely ignoring the question, the doctor turned to the girl, "Now be sure that you don't let him leave his room for at least a week. I'll be back later to assess his mental status…the poor man," he added as almost an afterthought, and only out of etiquette.

"Doctor…why am I here? Where's Christine?" Raoul sat up shakily, raising his voice and commanding to be listened to.

The doctor's tone was just as cold as his hands as he pushed Raoul to lie back down upon his pillows.

"You're at your home, the Chagny estate," thinking for a moment he softened his voice and said almost soothingly, "And you don't need to worry about your fiancée anymore, monsieur."

"So she was found?" Tears of joy stung his eyes and the relief in his voice was palpable.

The servant girl let out a stifled sob and covered her mouth with both hands, running from the room with tears in her eyes.

A sad, cold smile settled itself on the face of the portly man hovering over the bed.

"…Just rest."

The unanswered question rang in the silence that followed the exit of the doctor. Raoul could do nothing more than stare blankly at the ceiling once more as he allowed himself to slip into a thoughtless fog.

"_Just rest…"_

He allowed himself to slip into the sweet oblivion of sleep.


	13. Torn Wings

**Phantomadark: **Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it! Be sure to stick around: things are bound to get even crazier as I go.

**Twinkle22: **Thanks for the review, and sorry to keep you waiting!

**Clever Lass: **I'm hoping to keep 'em coming. I'm battling off a fierce case of writers block. I'm certainly glad you are enjoying it, and thanks for sticking with me even when I have to do boring fillers (sigh)

**Sapphire Tearz: **Yep. I was sorta hoping that I wouldn't have to go too much into it, but then I figured I shouldn't leave you guys wondering. That'd be mean. I try to keep the meanness to a minimum, and only to Raoul. Thanks!

**Chocobo Surprise: **Wow, you read it all in one day? Wow again! Thanks for sticking with me! Yes, I couldn't bring myself to make Raoul a monster. He's now just a misunderstood mental case. But he'll have his part in the story yet! (blushes) Thanks for the praise on the Erik-ness…I certainly hope I can continue to portray all the many facets of our favorite phantom, not simply his sex appeal as many stories go for. And I read those stories anyway lol. More confusion will ensue in the days to come for poor Christine, but we shall see how long she can last against Erik…so tune in next time! (cheesy tv voice)

**A Phantom Moon: **Hmm, I'm ever-so-tempted to do just that to Raoul. We shall see…and you must know by now that evil is my favorite seasoning. Goes great with everything, especially Erik. Dang, now I'm hungry.

**Final-Threshold: **Yes, the angst is rather heavy nowadays. Cheer up though, the moment Christine gives in to temptation may be close at hand…I mean she'll at least quit making Erik's life so much of a tearful/angsty hell. Not in this chapter though, sorry! Next one, I swear it! (passes you a tissue) Don't cry haha

**Pertie: **Glad you're eating it up! Want a side of evil and angst with that? Thanks for the praise, and stay with me!  
**Cinafran: **Will update update update the moment I can fix this (points at the computer). I can't stand laptops, but it's all I have now (tear). Hope to see you around later, and thanks for the review!

**Faust: **Eww, Raoul's gross enough without piss on him. And yes, Erik's arm is quite alright, so no worries lol.

**EmilyWillow: **I'll reply to every single review you make because it's the least I can do! You take the time to read my little tale and THEN review…that's a lot of time! I really appreciate it. Raoul will appear again, and we'll get to see how he takes the fact that everyone thinks his fiancée is dead…but first some crazy angst! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Erikphan24601: **I'm glad you enjoy my story so much! Yes, let's all take a moment of silence to picture Raoul with messy hair….(snorts with laughter). Ahem. Thanks for the review!

**Fireflyjunction: **Sorry to disappoint! My bad. Erik and Christine in this chapter, although not really E/C (that will come later…she is falling into his web of deception hehehe) and c'mon. When is Christine NOT indecisive? Raoul, unfortunately, will remain quite alive. For now. BWAH HAHA!  
**soccernat11: **(shrugs) Sometimes I need the harshness. Unfortunately, I knew that was a major dumb-girl moment for me when I didn't include that. (sigh) Oh well. Wasn't my favorite chapter by FAR either; don't feel bad for saying so. Hope you'll stick around and point out my other brainfarts in the future…I'll try to avoid them!

**InuLvr7:** I feel bad for him, too…oh well lol. Thanks!  
**Mianne: **Why, of course Erik would use the only blood he had on hand at the time! He's evil, and he's devoted to his evil plans. I can't say I'd fork over a pint of the red stuff for some scheme, myself. Thank you for the praise, you are too kind! And you're free to marry Erik, as soon as you dig to the bottom of the piles of fangirls on him and pry him out from below their "squee"-ing bodies. I tried. I lost two fingers.

**AJNemo: **In the next chapter we'll explore whether or not Raoul will believe what he is told, or whether he'll rant and rave like a madman…probably a bit of both. Thanks for reading!

**Kagome1514: **Key word: ALMOST. Haha! I'll keep updating if you keep reading (grin)!

**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **Heehee, Erik and a corset…imagine if he DID get caught! That feeling of sympathy left quickly! See if it will return in the next chapter…bwah haha  
**PhantomsHeart: **I had to use some serious self-restraint to not put "close encounters of the corset kind" in the story lol! By the way, Erik would like to know who else would have been around to offer a pint of the red stuff. And he wouldn't have touched Raoul. Who knows what he's carrying disease-wise. Haha…let the chaos begin! Or the opera! Whichever!

**Tryptophan: **Thank goodness Erik is silent, because that would have been one awkward moment. It's not the best plan of action to let your prey think you're a pervert…or cross dresser lol. This is true: thanks to your reminder about Phillipe, we may indeed see some of him in here in future chapters. But I've got to pull in another character as well…no telling. Do not hesitate to send me a long review; yours is one that I always look to for honesty and evil ideas bwah haha. Best of luck with your story; I'm quite certain that it will do very well. I mean, look at all the ideas you had for me (which I appreciate…I'm always looking for ways to get more interesting stuff in!). Erik's just craze enough to not worry about infections, but that's what we have you for! Antifluff…melikes (grin). I USED to update quickly. Unfortunately, my computer is rebellious. Grr. Thanks for the review!  
**Shieta: **Well fancy that! I'm glad you found inspiration, but in my story? I'm more than flattered! I'll be sure to read your story, sorry I haven't already…computer issues. Meg? Now that's an idea…one that I shall consider! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**No One Mourns the Wicked: **Hmm, spazzing out perhaps? Haha, you and me both: Erik's in uncharted territory when it comes to women's clothing. Raoul's fate hangs in the balance. I have to think about how evil and sinister I want to be haha. Thanks!  
**ladystrider77: **Erik and Christine might handle things well…but not in this chapter! Fear not, next chapter holds a bit of light in this darkness. They at least need to talk about what's going on…and Christine is in desperate need of someone to talk to. I wonder whoooooo…thanks for the review!

**Everyone who reviews: you have my undying gratitude. Be sure to let me know what you think about my chapters in the future, and I'll be sure to try my best to improve and give you what you want!**

**Well, my computer certainly has a way of surprising me. Last Friday morning it up and decided that it was overworked, and it rebelled. The internet died, and unfortunately no one in my household wanted to mess with it. Even though I insisted that I needed it. Badly. So…yep. My brother is graciously lending me his laptop this week, and I'm positively sure it had nothing to do with me threatening him. Repeatedly.**

**Angsty, angsty, angsty. Didn't mean for it to turn out that way, but it happened. For those of you who can't stand the angst, please be patient. Christine has to lose all hope of being rescued before she will come running to our beloved phantom.

* * *

**

**Chapter Thirteen: Torn Wings**

Weakness in the face of overwhelming temptation was not acceptable.

Upon waking from the solace of sleep, the only place where she did not find herself plagued by troubling thoughts, Christine had spent the better part of her days avoiding her fallen angel. Only coming out of her solitude to seek sustenance, she spent most of her time thinking. Endless hours passed, and she sat alone in her room for what seemed like weeks, staring at the painted sky above her and fervently wishing to bask in the sunshine that was captured in the brush strokes. An ornate clock had graced a shelf in her room, dutifully ticking away the minutes, but it now found rest in the bottom of her wardrobe. She couldn't stand to watch as time slipped away…and no one came to find her.

The idea that no one had managed to find her was daunting. She knew, however, that wherever Erik had managed to conceal her would by necessity be difficult to locate. It was, in fact, underground. _And who would think to look in places where human beings should not be found alive?_

Her hope dwindled as the days passed. Every hour's passing seemed to take with it some bit of her soul, slowly bringing her to the brink of death. But she could wait. She had all the time in the world.

Christine lay draped across her cream colored settee in her lavender dressing gown, rose petal lips parted slightly and eyes focused on the far wall, a book open but forgotten in her delicate hands. Once again she found herself inundated with dreary thoughts that threatened to choke the air from her lungs and drown her in misery.

_How long has it been? Isn't Raoul worried in the least? Surely he found the letter. That would of course lead him to the Paris Opera House. Perhaps he is there looking for me at this very moment. _

_Or perhaps he can't be bothered to interrupt his business and social dealings_, she thought with a grimace. It could very well be the truth.

Idly running her slender fingers over the engagement ring on her hand, she recalled the feeling of cold abandonment she had felt during the months at the Chagny estate. Days passed without the caress of the sun, where she was locked within the luxurious cage that had been presented to her when she had accepted raoul's proposal. She had been left to amuse herself with thoughts of the Opera, of singing, of her father, of her lonliness…

_Rather like you are left now_, the irony of the situation dawned on her. Pushing such idiodic thoughts aside, she convinced herself that her present situation was in no way similar and was in fact much more dreary and despicable. She allowed her mind to wander back to her fiancé as her thumb ran over the diamonds on her ring.

Raoul had been a difficult man to please. It seemed that she could no longer hold his heart and attention as she was once able. Raoul had deemed her worthy of his presence only at meals, and he had barely taken enough interest in her as a fiancée to bestow the occasional chaste kiss on her cheek – and then only when she asked.

Blushing furiously at the memory, Christine scolded herself. _You pathetic woman…you would not have died by simply being starved for attention. After mere weeks without affection, you lowered yourself to begging for kisses from your fiancé._

…_But there is a man who would beg to kiss me…_

The pink flush to her cheeks deepened as her fingertips flew to her lips of their own accord. _But that was just to keep blood from staining my dress…right?_

Yes, she suspected her fallen angel would be more than willing to change roles from the cold and unfeeling captor to the comforting lover…and yet she could not allow it. She had promised herself to Raoul, her childhood love, and her promise had bound her to him. She was his fiancée. It was her duty to wait for him to come and rescue her from the temptation of another man's arms.

_Temptation? What temptation? He is a deceiver, a devil with borrowed wings. There is no temptation there. What I seek is the purity and light of an angel: what I once believed him to hold. I know now it was only a charade. _

Yet the more she let her mind wander on her deceiving tutor, the more she found herself longing to go to him. Christine's young heart began to pound as she attempted to rationalize her strange attraction to her fallen angel. What he lacked in purity and light he more than made up for with his passion and devotion. It in no way excused his actions, and seething anger still welled in her heart when she contemplated her captivity, but her heart softened when she caught Erik's golden eyes and saw the swirling pool of emotion he held within them.

He would be more than willing to offer her a shoulder to cry on and strong arms to be held in.

That was precisely why she was in danger.

At the death of her father, Christine had fallen into a deep pit of depression and sorrow that she could not pull herself out of without a helping hand. Erik gladly obliged. In the guise of the Angel of Music, he had slowly but surely showed her how to live on her own, how to be strong.

But she had been spoiled. By comforting her whenever she needed him, she came to depend on his soothing words and calming voice. Unknowingly, Erik had bound her to him in an unbreakable bond. He was her comfort and solace when she was overwhelmed with sadness. She needed him in desperate times.

In her present solitude she craved him.

Calling her mind from thoughts of comfort and sympathy from her dark angel, Christine recalled herself to reality. _He can never know. He'll just see it as one more triumph over Raoul, and he will scoff at my faltering feelings._

Setting her jaw stubbornly, her chocolate eyes narrowed at the mirror on the wall, reflecting her determination back to her from across the room.

_I will not be mocked. I wavered once; it will not happen again._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As much as he would have liked to deceive himself, Erik was not a patient man. With the meddling vicomte disposed of, he knew it was only a matter of time before Christine came to the realization that no rescuer would valiantly free her from her confinement.

Time, however, had a contrary habit of flowing at a regular pace. No amount of pacing and growling could change that. He had tried.

It had been weeks since he had last held her in his arms, even if it was only when she cried. Her tears were his only link to her, in a twisted manner they had become his friends. Only with her tears could he find it within himself to hold her and comfort her. It was the only time when the Erik of old resurfaced; the Angel of Music that had hidden into darkness ventured forth, forcing the fallen angel, the tempter, to resign his place in the forefront.

But there had been no tears recently, no invitation to embrace the stubborn yet delicate woman that he had caged within his lair. Silence blanketed the rooms of Erik's haven; it seemed to suffocate him no matter where he retreated to for refuge. It only succeeded in further infuriating him, working him into the whirlwind of fury that he found himself lost in at the moment.

The chilly air of the underground lair held no sway over the fire that raged within him. The candle flames danced and sputtered, mirroring his anger. Catching his feet treading the same pathway before the clock on the mantle in the sitting room, Erik deliberately stilled his restless body and closed his eyes.

_Calm, Erik. She will come to you. No matter how stubborn she is, she is only human. Despair will worm its way into her cold heart, and it will soften soon enough at your slightest touch. She will be tamed._

His lips curled in a smile. As cold and uncaring as Christine acted, Erik had discovered that his presence could send her blood racing. Whether from fear or lust, he held a power over her that he could use to his advantage.

_Just like the power she holds over you_, a voice pointed out. _She simply doesn't realize it._

_Yet._

And he would keep it that way. It was his game, he was the master. He made the rules. The young woman would not be allowed to take the upper hand when he had planned and orchestrated his plot so well.

Realizing his eyes were once again trained on the hands of the clock, Erik shook himself. _That girl consumes your thoughts. _

His eyes narrowed slightly as an idea struck. It was time to return the favor.

Sweeping over to sit at the organ, Erik stripped off his cloak and coat, throwing it to the nearby chair with his fedora. Slowly stripping off his gloves, Erik's eyes roamed along the magnificent instrument before him. This was where he belonged when his feelings overwhelmed him, not pacing before a ticking clock like a caged animal. Letting his fingers trail over the keys momentarily, he mentally scoured his brain for a tune. Unable to settle on anything, he instead let his fingers wander as he poured all of his emotion into his music.

The deep and powerful sound of the organ reverberated throughout the room, filling the halls of his lair with notes that seemed to shiver in the air. The candle flames shuddered in awe. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

He knew she could hear it; he knew the enticing power of the music he made could easily pull her bodily from her room. This way he did not have to lower himself to begging for her presence. This way she would come of her own will.

Moments passed, and soon Erik could sense Christine's presence at the threshold of the room. He did not need to turn and open his eyes to see her hesitation; he could feel it. It hung in the air, seeming to thicken it as her indecision halted her own breath momentarily. Erik didn't dare breathe either. _Come to me, little one…_

Her willpower could not stand before the awesome influence of his music, and he knew it. The knowledge didn't help calm his nerves though, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow as his heart seemed to tighten in his chest. _So close…I can feel her._

His fingers continued their dance and his haunting music filled the dim room.

Slowly, carefully, Christine took a few steps toward where Erik was seated. He could feel her chocolate eyes burning into his back, and he did not dare to turn to face her and let the music die away. If he broke the spell now, even for a moment, she would undoubtedly run when she discovered herself to be in the presence of her captor, the one she had been trying to avoid.

He squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly remembering her warmth when he held her in his arms. Her heart had beaten wildly against his, her whole body trembled, and yet she had clung to him with her slender fingers, silently begging him not to leave her. Her lips had been soft and heated; no matter how much self-control he believed himself in possession of, he knew that if he saw those accursed rosebud lips now he would take them again…

And so he waited as the blood pounded in his ears and drowned out the music that continued from the pipe organ.

Finally the music drew Christine to stand directly behind Erik. He could feel the warmth that radiated from her slender body, and it almost drove him mad. But he continued composing, although the notes took on a faster tempo.

In a motion that made him balk like a frightened horse and stumble over the notes, Christine reached out and touched his left arm gently. A stab of pain coursed through Erik as the torn flesh beneath her hand screamed its protest. She pulled her hand back to her pale breast as if to still her rapid breathing, and she whispered an apology that was lost in the whirlwind of notes that organ produced. Erik ignored it, knowing she had no idea of his wound. _And I shall keep it that way. _His golden eyes remained closed as he played.

Without looking upon her, he could tell that she was nervous; she trembled like a leaf and was on the brink of flight at the slightest angry word. Seeking to ease her nerves, his music unconsciously flowed into a softer tune, something calming. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off now that he had her so close to him.

_So close…_

He felt the rush of air as she sat down on the floor near his side, allowing her skirts to pool around her. The lean muscles in his arms twitched as he forced them to continue their work and ignore the beautiful woman well within arm's reach.

_This is torment! _A voice in his head reasoned, _Cease the damned music and take her in your arms! You know she will not resist!_

Calling upon a surprising reserve of self-control, he played the song through its entirety. His fingers hovered over the keys as the last note rang in the air and died.

Settling his hands on his thighs, he wiped his sweaty palms dry on his pants. Erik opened his eyes but refused to look at the figure on the floor beside him, worried that any further motion would break the trance she had obviously fallen into. Instead he concentrated on a candle before him, its flame reflecting in his eyes and masking the inner fire that burned uncontrolled within him.

_Concentrate, Erik_, he reminded himself. _She is only a young woman. You are the hunter, not the hunted. Remember that and play the part!_

Light fingers coming to rest upon his knee drew his eyes to them. He only just managed not to recoil from her touch. It was dangerous for her to touch him. Or so said the last shred of her angel, who was violently shoved aside as the tempter took his place.

Golden eyes that burned met Christine's chocolate orbs. She gasped silently, parting her lips and blushing a little at the look in his eyes – or the feelings the look stirred within her.

She broke her gaze from his, looking instead at her hand upon his knee. She blushed and mumbled, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your playing. I d-don't know what came over me."

A slow smile tugged at the corners of Erik's mouth as he took her slender hand in his. Running his ungloved fingers lightly along her palm, he relished the shiver it provoked.

"Developed a stutter while we've been apart?" Erik asked in a husky voice as he raised an eyebrow slyly and looked down at the trembling woman before him.

Christine opened and closed her mouth a few times in indignation, although he noted with satisfaction that she did not attempt to pull away from him. His fingertips under her chin urged her to regain control of herself and close her gaping mouth; a deepening blush darkened her cheeks.

"As pretty as your mouth is, you shouldn't leave it hanging open like that, my dear. It doesn't suit you to gape like a fish," he softened the rebuke by brushing a stray curl from her face, allowing his fingers to graze along her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered as the breath caught in her breast and she closed her eyes briefly in response to his touch.

Every shiver he called forth in her, every blush that darkened her cheeks, and every breath that hitched in her breast sent chills through Erik. He reveled in the power his touch held, and his fascination at her responses only deepened, urging him to continue.

Desperate to have her closer to him, he pulled slightly on her hand, drawing her to her knees.

It was a mistake.

Christine's delicious scent made his head swim, but for once he did not mind his senses being fogged. Her breast heaved within her lavender dressing gown, drawing his eyes to the creamy skin visible above the folded silken cloth. He could feel her warm breath mingling with his own as it escaped her lips, which were parted slightly as if in invitation.

She did not speak, only stared at him with those innocent eyes that no longer held their pure shine of younger years or the dull gleam that they had adopted since her departure from the Opera. A new, fiercer emotion began to reveal itself in her eyes, and Erik soon realized it to be a mirror of what was held within his own.

It shocked him, but the knowledge sent his blood racing in his veins and prompted a dull ache in his midsection. _That look. Can she even fathom the danger she places herself in with such a look? _

Taking a shuddering breath, Erik lost the battle to control of himself as he wrenched his eyes from hers and brought her hand to his lips, brushing them across her palm. A shuddering breath of her own followed as he moved his lips to her wrist, savoring her scent as he kissed her. He could feel her blood pounding in her veins beneath his lips, and he drew back slightly and smiled.

His smile quickly turned to a frown as his wandering touch brushed the engagement ring upon her finger. Pulling back to survey the extravagant ring, Erik's eyes darkened with fury.

_And here I had thought she was savoring my touch, thinking only of me. She was recalling that…that BASTARD._

Casting her hand away from him as if it were a snake, Erik turned from the confused Christine and swiftly came to his feet.

His fists clenched and unclenched as he stood, shoulders trembling with emotion.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Silence reigned as Christine stared at Erik's back in the flickering candlelight. What had been a curiously thrilling moment had quickly turned to one of pure fright as she wondered what had happened to cast her angel into such a mood. He radiated fury, and words died on her tongue. Her mouth was dry, and no amount of swallowing would clear the lump that formed in her throat. No matter how strong she believed herself to be, she would always quiver in the face of his anger.

She cursed herself a thousand times over for her weakness, for allowing the music to lure her from her room, allowing herself to relax before him, allowing her anger to subside, allowing herself to touch him…and to enjoy his touch. She still trembled and a heat still raged through her body, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

But she had longed for his touch, and he was the only one who ever drew forth such emotions. It was beyond her control, so she momentarily pushed it to the back of her mind. She would most likely spend hours beating herself up over it later.

Slipping onto the bench before the organ, she gathered her courage. Licking dry lips, Christine asked shakily, "Erik…what's wrong? Did I do something that angered you?"

She was not prepared for the cold laughter that erupted from deep within his chest as he shook his head, still not looking at her.

"Oh, Christine…you, anger me? Of course not," his voice dripped sarcasm.

A moment of utter silence passed when Christine dared not breathe in fear of incurring the wrath of the man before her. Shadows seemed to cling to Erik, casting his form into semidarkness and lending him an even more intimidating air.

He turned; his face was entirely composed, but his eyes glinted like amber jewels from within his black mask. They were cold and hard, a drastic change from the burning passion she saw within them only moments earlier.

"Do you miss your home?" He asked bluntly, breaking the suffocating silence.

"W-What?" She did not know what he was asking. _Of COURSE I miss my home. Surely that is not what he means._

"I was simply thinking that you would long for the…_comforts_…that your previous residence had to offer." His chest rose and fell in a controlled manner; it seemed he had to school his breathing into normalcy.

Still not entirely catching on, Christine frowned, delicate eyebrows drawing together as she spoke.

"The room you have given me is quite comfortable," she said grudgingly, "and I do not want for anything material, if that is what you are asking."

Waving his hand dismissively, he smiled. The smile chilled Christine to the bone, and she clenched her hands in the silk of her dressing gown. Erik's smile held no warmth; it seemed to leech the very life out of the room, making it resemble a grave in its silence.

It was a predatory grin, and Christine knew very well that she was the prey.

"Well, my dear, I am sure you are wanting for a few things in your room. I'm quite certain your bed is not as _comfortable_ as it was at the vicomte's estate," the stressed word held the hint of a growl.

"It's quite comfortable, if a little cold," Christine conceded, voice only shaking slightly. She spoke the truth. Then again, everything was cold underground.

Erik narrowed his eyes and raised himself to his full and formidable height. He crossed his arms before him and leaned against the wall, the shadows wrapping around him like a shroud. His golden cat's eyes gleamed from the gloom and his teeth flashed in a sneer, heightening the impression of a predator with its prey in its claws.

"Yes, I imagine your bed would be rather cold without your _vicomte_." He spat.

The words seemed to echo as they sunk in.

Rising to her feet slowly, Christine fought to hold his gaze as she narrowed her eyes in anger. A heated blush rose in her cheeks at the accusation.

"Exactly _what_ are you insinuating, monsieur?" Somehow she managed to keep her voice from wavering, although she quivered inside.

_I know very well what he means. How can I dispute it? It certainly would appear that…THAT had happened. It didn't. But how can I convince him otherwise?Would he believe me? Oh, Erik…my angel…why do you think of me so?_

It pained her to think that her mentor, her teacher and friend in her sorrows, would hold such beliefs about her purity. All of Paris could think as they liked; the only opinion that mattered was Erik's. Her heart clenched, seeming to choke the flow of blood through her veins as she realized how much his opinion meant to her. The realization made the accusation all the more stinging.

Stalking towards her, each step clicking as his boot hit the stone floor, he allowed the smile to slip from his face. Realizing he meant to stand very near her, and worried that he might lash out at her for her impertinent tone, Christine held her ground as long as she could before retreating a few steps in fear.

Glaring down at her with a fire in his narrowed eyes, Erik spoke between clenched teeth, "I could see him in your eyes when I touched you. Do you not think a man can tell when he is given _used goods_?" the words flowed from his mouth, his angelic voice turning them to sweet venom.

The words struck Christine as if he had indeed raised his hand to her. Christine's mouth hung open, and tears began to sting her eyes. The blood rushed from her face, leaving her creamy skin pale. Desperately her mind searched for words that would express her fury, to refute his claims of her impurity. No words came.

Seeing she had no defense, Erik's heart sank. _She does not deny it. So it is true._

Despair quickly disintegrated before the powerful anger that welled within him. _She has BETRAYED me! After all the years of comfort and companionship, after all I have done for her, all I have given her, she spurns me yet again! And that bastard, that unworthy BOY, has taken from Christine her last shred of innocence…_

_As you would have, _a voice of reason pointed out. _If she were yours, would you not do the same?_

_But it would have been different._ Bile rose in his throat and his heart clenched as he imagined the brutal way in which his enemy had claimed what was rightfully his. The boy had won.

Turning his anger upon the deceitful temptress before him once more, Erik sneered down at her.

"Silence, my dear? Always silence, I see. But you do not deny it. Perhaps you thought that in your silence you could simply enjoy my caresses while imagining them to be from your bastard fiancé," he reached forth to stroke her cheek and Christine recoiled, closing her eyes with a stifled sob.

_SPEAK Christine! Speak! Say something, say anything! Deny his claims! _The voice in her head screamed at her, and yet her throat remained tight and her mouth firmly closed.

_What good will it do? What does it matter? If he thinks you a whore, what difference does it make? Your honor means nothing. The honor of a prisoner matters not. He does not care for you any longer; you are simply his revenge on Raou: a pawn to use in his twisted game._

Erik closed the space between them deliberately, and Christine backed away until she tripped over something. Catching herself, her hands pressed down the keys of the piano she had run into and drew forth a discordant note. Her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the piano bench, looking up with frightened eyes at the intimidating form before her.

Two chaotic notes followed as Erik rested his hands on either side of her trembling form, bringing their faces mere inches away. Unlike before, shivers of fear shot down Christine's spine, and goose bumps rose along her bare arms. Candlelight caught one side of Erik's profile, casting the other into complete darkness as his eyes burned into hers.

She closed her eyes as panic gripped her; her heart pounded madly against her breast and air refused to enter her burning lungs. Desperately she pushed against the strong arms to either side of her, but unsurprisingly they did not move an inch. She was trapped.

"I had once entertained the thought that you would come to love me as I love you, but that fantasy has been more than thoroughly trampled. It seems that the moment I let down my guard, break down my walls, and let you in, you feel the urge to murder any dreams of beauty I may hold within my withered heart. I offered you love and comfort, Christine. How do you repay me?" His voice was low and even, but the words he spoke held such a feeling of sorrow that tears trickled from the corners of Christine's eyes.

Christine turned from his quiet fury, feeling the sting of his words and still finding herself unable to respond. Placing his hands on her slender shoulders and pulling her forcefully to look at him once more, he shook her roughly, raising his voice once more in exasperation.

"Do you not see it? Your vicomte will not come for you! He has what he wanted: he took a beautiful angel, tore off her wings, and made her into a commonplace _harlot_!"

Her hand flew through the air, making contact with his left cheek with a stinging slap that echoed in the following hush.

Time seemed to stop as Christine stared in shock at what she had done. Erik still loomed over her, his arms to either side of her upon the piano. His head was turned to the right and his eyes were clenched shut. At first it appeared that he had frozen in place, but the heaving of his broad chest betrayed the furious emotion boiling within him.

_Dear God. What have I done? _Horror spread through Christine, turning her blood to ice. _He will not stand for this. Before I may have angered him, but I have never before crossed the line and struck him…he will return in kind._

She quivered upon the piano bench, and finally her lungs sucked in the air they craved. It came out in sobs as hot tears streamed down her cheeks and fell upon her dressing gown, turning certain spots deeper lavender as her tears soaked into the fabric.

_Why? Why Erik? _She longed to ask. _Why must you torment me? You do not know the hell I have lived these months without you…_

_But now is not the time to tell him_, she warned herself. _You must go. Run, while you can._

She stood and pushed with all her might against his arm, stumbling when he gave way easily. Eyes streaming and throat burning, Christine stood for a moment as Erik's hand came to touch his abused cheek, golden eyes still closed.

"…He will come for me. Raoul will come," Christine managed to insist, more to assure herself of the fact than to prove anything to the dark man before her.

She ran for the safety of her room, and Erik heard the click of the lock. Her broken sobs were muffled by the walls between them.

The sitting room had become unbearably cold; the air seemed stagnant and stale in his lungs. A candle sputtered and hissed, its flame screaming defiance before it drowned in its own wax pool, plunging the room into deeper gloom. The tick of the clock on the mantle was, for once, ignored completely by the solitary occupant of the now grave-like room.

Falling to sit upon the bench before him, Erik put his head in his hands, covering the tears that flowed freely. One thought spun through his head, repeating itself over and over.

_She did not deny it._

_

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_

Please don't stone me to death. It had to be done. If all of Paris wonders about Christine's impurity, I certainly think that the phantom would as well. No worries, things will be better for the two in the next chapter...now let me go write it, and please don't cry about this angsty-ness! I warned you: this is an ANGSTY story! Ta! (runs off to avoid the rocks)


	14. Confessions

**Mianne: **Yay, a fan of the angsty-ness! And yes, the mask is a half mask, although he's not really wearing the white one seeing as Christine has that one from when Meg gave it to her. He's wearing the black one at the moment and it's like the one from DJT. So it is the half mask, but not yet? It will come back soon, I promise!  
**A Phantom Moon: **Castration? Oh my, don't tempt me. That would certainly make some evil revenge for Christine's supposed lack of virginity lol. Evil and angst! Yummy…I'll be sure to read! The nicest author? Your favorite? Haha, you flatter me…and no toadies: I require partners in EEEVILLLL (echoing maniacal laughter). I'm quite sure you will live up to the title in your phanfic! Thanks for the lovely review, and I'll be sure to check up with your story! (by the way…couldn't help the used goods comment. It just seemed so evil heehee)  
**Final-Threshold: **I'm glad you understand my need for angst. I mean, Erik is complex; he's got a lot going on in his mind, and it needs to be written. Thank you for the comment, but this chapter wasn't written yet! I tried to get it up as soon as possible, though haha. Thanks for the review!**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess:** Christine has some major emotional issues, but hey, she did find enough backbone to smack him, even if she did let him rant on for a while! He deserved it, I will admit. Oddness does not terrify me! I'd rather like to smell Erik as well…and be held by Erik…but not LerouxErik. He smells like death. And that's a major turnoff, my friend. Haha…thanks for the review! I find it amazing how quickly people read my chapters!  
**No One Mourns the Wicked: **Yep, sorry for that! Christine was momentarily mute…but she talks plenty in this chapter!  
**All That Remains: **Um…okay? I certainly hope this doesn't mean that you entirely hated the chapter…but yes, I will admit they are idiots for not speaking their minds. Then again, Erik already had his mind made up, and Christine was crushed that he thought such a thing, so hopefully you can understand a little bit.  
**Gjb-1969: **Glad to have a new reader! Pass it on, ok? Just kidding, but I am very happy to have you reading along, and thanks for dropping me a line! I look forward to your continued support for my wee little tale. Thanks!  
**SinwalkersMoon: **Thank you for understanding Christine's reason for not speaking. It would have been too easy for her to deny it right away and have him say "Okay, good, I was worried but I love you so much anyways" and madly go at it like rabbits, and it wouldn't be my style, so I had to do it. I'd much rather be pelted with roses. I'd rather chance thorns than stones haha!  
**Emmanuelle Grey: **Yes, a rather sad chapter I must admit. But such high praise! I'm not worthy of it…it's really all thanks to the readers and reviewers. If my story had received bad reviews in the beginning, I rather doubt I would have continued (no worries, I'm far enough along now that I'll continue even if I get charred and crispy from flames). You have no idea how much I appreciate you reading and commenting on my story. It's readers like you that are the motivation behind my mad writings, so thank you once again!  
**Chocobo Surprise: **You know good and well that I can't end on a happy note, haha. I think it is quite beyond my power. But do not worry, this chapter helps to clear up the terrible argument a bit. Erik can't stay mad at Christine for long, you know! Thanks for understanding the silence of Christine; a few people want to kill her for it, but it needs to be understood. Thanks for continuing to read!  
**Tryptophan: **Erik's moment of boldness with touching Christine was entirely momentary, I assure you. He finally takes a chance and begins to give in to his emotions for Christine, and then he realizes that she could very well be a whore haha. Poor guy; he'll most definitely be wary of her in the future…and I believe he would be the type of person to have more of a problem with being touched than touching others (if that makes any sense). Anyway, he's not really all that bold, as I hope to show in the next few chapters. But Christine will get to him, that's for sure. And by all means correct any grammar stuff you may find; I can't assure you that I will take the time to change it right away, but I'll make a note of it. As long as my writing is slightly coherent I figure I'm doing well haha! Thanks, and I look forward to your story!  
**ladystrider77: **Sorry you didn't like the last chapter (nervous laugh). Rocks are not my friends. If by making the next chapter better you mean less silence on Christine's part and more acceptance on Erik's, then I hope I managed that. If you meant something else, then by God I'm at a loss haha! Apparently you are not a fan of the angst…but I warned you! The thing says angst, you know. (makes a run for it to avoid the rocks)  
**Shieta: **Sounds like a deal to me! Deals are lovely when they don't involve stones. And until I get my computer fixed, I'm stuck on this moody laptop, so updates should come…just perhaps not as quickly as before. Beats me (shrug). Thanks for reading!  
**Orianna-2000: **Some of you love angst. I'm glad I don't have to dodge stones from you; I'll be busy enough with all the other ones haha. Thanks for reading, and trust me: no matter how many reviewers say "ugh, ANGST" I'm still going to write it. I'm just contrary like that, you know. BWAH HAHA! Ahem. Sorry.  
**Bloody Phantom24: **Wow, a lurker! (grins) I'm glad to hear you like my story, and no worries about not reviewing earlier; I understand, yet I'm still happy you did decide to drop me a line. Poor Christine can't help but be a little dense. If I made her super intelligent and allowed her to make all the right choices, then it'd be definitely OOC haha. I could see it now. Christine walks right up to Erik: "Oh Erik, will you be my baby daddy?" (snorts and giggles) But naturally she will end up with him…he's got her wrapped around his finger now!  
**Kagome1514: **Yeah, I suppose that chapter was longer than the others. Hmm. The longer I wait to update the longer my chapters get, I think. Christine and Erik will work things out; it's EC, so I can't rightly have them hate each other for all time haha. Now I just need to get to writing the next chapter…  
**The Phantom1013: **Glad to hear you enjoy it! Your email kind of surprised me, I was thinking "Hmm, normal reviews don't look like this" and I was praying that it wasn't some long and drawn out flame that someone didn't want to post for the public to see lol. I try to keep the Erik-ness authentic and true; he's a tough character to get totally right, so I just try to get it close. Thanks for dropping me a line, and I hope you will continue to read!  
**Avovisto: **Yay, we can get stoned together!...wait…er…Doesn't sound right. I'd love to tell you my future ideas for my story, but then you wouldn't be surprised! (aka: I don't really know what's all going to happen yet) Haha. Thanks for reading!  
**Dove of Night: **Well of course I'm reading your story! How could I not? Erik is so darkly devious and sinister that it makes me smile that special evil smile. (Which, by the way, is usually accompanied by that special evil laugh that echoes even if there aren't any cavernous spaces around). There's not enough of the wicked Erik out there; it takes a talented writer such as yourself to make him so evil and yet so appealing. And Christine deserves the roughness; she isn't exactly the most decisive woman. I will eagerly await the next chapter, which I hope to be able to read on my own computer once I fix the cursed thing! (shakes fist at computer) Anyways, thanks for sticking with me, and I'll be sure to be lurking around waiting for your next update!

**I never cease to be amazed at how quickly people read and respond to my chapters (even if they're ones that deserve rocks)! I thank you all…you make me want to write more and improve! Go motivation!

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**

**Chapter Fourteen: Confessions**

Crying is a convenient way to ease emotional pain. Tears help to wash away harsh feelings and angry words, leaving behind a clean slate, a fresh starting point to begin the healing process.

Excessive crying, however, tends to lead only to sickness. Christine discovered this quickly after she barricaded herself in her room and flung herself upon her bed.

Hot and angry tears streamed down her face, and her eyes swiftly became red and puffy. She didn't care. Burying her face in her pillow, she cried like she had not cried in years. _I probably haven't cried this much since the death of my father_, the idle thought floated across her tortured consciousness, only bringing more pain. Sobs wracked her slim frame, tearing at her throat as her lungs gasped for breath only to expel it again as a tormented moan.

_Why, Erik? Why! I remember the Angel of old…MY Angel. But he is no more! You're savage and cold, but the moment you let your guard down and I see a glimpse of the man I loved you have to go and stab me in the heart once more!_

It was not an exaggeration. Her heart did indeed feel as if it had been rent in two, yet it pounded ever faster, and with each beat it sent a spasm of pain through her heaving chest. She knew it was her imagination; mere emotions could not break her heart.

_But they have. Oh, Erik! Why do you torment me? You do not know the torment I go through every time I see you, every time you touch me…I find myself cursing the day I left you and accepted the chains that bind me to Raoul, and then you find it necessary to lash out at me and strike me where it hurts most._

Her moans and wails only increased as she fingered the ring upon her finger. _If only I hadn't bound myself to Raoul. Then no one would believe me to be a…a HARLOT, and I could allow Erik to take me in his arms and love me without regrets or hesitation_.

In her emotional turmoil, her anger quickly turned to a different subject, desperate for release. Rising to her knees upon the bed, beautiful face obscured with rage and tears, she pried at the gaudy engagement ring upon her finger. It would not budge for a few moments, and a sob of frustration escaped her lips before she managed to slip the ring off.

With all the power left in her weak and trembling arms, she hurled the ring far from her. It struck the heavy door of her room, clattering to fall against the floor.

_Erik is right. Raoul will not come for me. He does not care for me enough to bother, and I knew it all along. I just misled myself with false hope. There is no more hope now…_

Collapsing once more upon the bed, she cried until her eyes ached. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, protesting her continued sobs. She ignored it, crying ever harder as she fell into self-pity.

_I am alone. No one will come for me, and I will spend the last of my days rotting away in this grave… _

Her thoughts were cut off as bile rose in her throat, and she rushed to the bathroom, only just making it. Her stomach could only take so much abuse. Rinsing her mouth out with cold water, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Bloodshot eyes stared back at her from a splotchy reddened face. Tears still fell and she brushed at them angrily. _What a fine mess you've worked yourself into._

Grabbing a brush from her vanity, she roughly ran it through her curls, tugging at her scalp; she ignored the sharp pain. She swiftly tied her hair up in a bun with a ribbon to keep it from her face. She returned to the bathroom and splashed her face with chilled water.

Christine stared at her reflection; she looked much improved, if a little tired with her reddened eyes and pale cheeks. She still hiccoughed occasionally, fighting the urge to cry again. Adjusting her lavender dressing gown around her, Christine returned to her bed.

Reaching underneath it, she withdrew the cloak that she had worn the night she had been spirited away by the ghost of her Angel of Music. Unfolding the slightly dusty cloak upon her lap, she reached within the inner pocket. Her fingers encountered something smooth and cold.

Christine withdrew the white porcelain mask from its place of concealment. Letting the cloak slip to the floor, she focused her entire attention on the mask as she ran her slender fingers over its surface.

A grim smile tugged at the corner of her lips. _It represents him perfectly. How ironic; the mask mirrors the soul. _

Erik was the essence of duality. The uncovered side of his face revealed the devastatingly handsome angel who had captivated Christine with his voice, his devotion, and his music. Her angel was kind, gentle, and comforting, although terrifyingly possessive.

Behind the mask lurked the tempting devil, beckoning her to fall into temptation. This facet of Erik held no limitations; killing and torturing came as easily as breathing, and required as much thought. Surprisingly, Christine found herself undeniably drawn to the raw power and emotion that he conveyed. The tempter need not rely on outward appearances and the lust for the flesh; he captured his prey with his overwhelming passion. It stirred unusual and frightening emotions within her.

Unbidden, two tears fell upon the cold white porcelain. Her lip trembled as she took a shuddering breath, balancing upon the edge of another breakdown.

_He wants nothing more to do with me now. Perhaps he will release me._

Somehow the thought brought no comfort, only a hollow feeling of loss.

A knock upon the door made Christine's heart leap in a myriad of emotions.

_It is him._

XXXXXXXXXXX

Erik stood poised on the threshold of his angel's room, separated from her by only a slab of wood. His pulse raced and he fought to calm the fluttering of his stomach as he waited for a reply to his knock.

There was only silence.

Nervously he surveyed the door, running his golden eyes along its frame.

_Perhaps I have not allowed her enough time._

Erik may have been naïve; he was not stupid. Over the years of watching over Christine, he had learned something of the ways of women. Things like this required time.

He wasn't willing to wait.

Raising his ungloved hand once again to knock upon the door, he paused momentarily to touch his left cheek. The pain had subsided quickly; Christine did not have as much force behind her hand as she likely would have hoped. The wound that the blow had left upon his heart still throbbed, however.

_I was out of line. Even if she is not…pure…I should have been more considerate of her feelings than to attack her and her feeble hopes for rescue. She is only a young woman, barely out of girlhood. _

That was, perhaps, what angered him the most. For the vicomte, that intolerably pompous boy, to ravage something as young and pure as Erik's angel was inexcusable. Christine deserved love, not lust, and she needed a gentle and comforting hand to lead her through the manifestation of such love.

Erik rather doubted that the Vicomte de Chagny could be bothered to manage such tenderness. The idea of such brutality called a rumbling growl from deep within his chest.

_It's not fair._

_She should have been mine._

Merely thinking of claiming something that the vicomte had before him made Erik's stomach clench. Raoul de Chagny had taken from him something that could not be returned. Erik was unused to being defeated; it made his blood boil in his veins. He would have his revenge.

Recalling himself to his present situation, Erik scolded himself.

_I'm talking about Christine, not some sort of contest that I have lost. She is my angel, and she is safely out of the lecherous grasp of that bastard. The death of her purity is only partly her fault._

Reining in his anger at the actions of the woman he so adored, Erik reminded himself of his purpose and again rapped upon the door. Once again his call for admittance received no answer.

The deathly hush inside the room before him made Erik uneasy. Mentally he made sure he had removed all instruments from the room with which Christine could cause herself serious harm. Enough time had passed for her to attempt, and succeed, with suicide…

His keen amber eyes roamed along the door, finally coming to rest upon the lock. Reaching into his pocket, Erik withdrew a hairpin. He had found it in Christine's old dressing room, and had decided that it would be a useful tool in the future. Of course he hadn't thought of its uses at the time; he simply felt the need to have a little something of Christine's with him. It was childish, he knew. Yet he had taken it anyway.

His nimble fingers made swift work of the lock with the aide of the hairpin; gently turning the handle, he pushed the door inwards.

The room was rather dim; a single candle on either side of the bed cast some light to the gloomy shadows. Silence reigned as Erik's golden eyes desperately searched the room for Christine; his heart sank despite his residual anger as he expected the worst.

A sigh of relief escaped his parted lips as his eyes found his angel.

She sat upon her bed, her head bent in contemplation of something white upon her lap. Stray curls rebelliously struggled to free themselves from the strict bun she had tried to restrain them in. She did not look up at him, and vaguely he wondered if she had heard his entrance.

Stepping forward tentatively in the gloom, Erik's right boot bumped against something, sending it skittering across the floor. The diamond engagement ring spun for a moment, its metallic ringing filling the room before it was swallowed by the heavy silence.

His golden eyes were locked upon the small mass of metal and jewels. Erik's heart seemed to catch in his throat.

_What does this mean? Has she given up on her rescuer? Perhaps…but this does not bode well. Is her spirit really broken, or is she merely playing me once more?_

Christine still did not raise her eyes to the tall form in the threshold of her bedroom. The clatter of the ring did not appear to disturb her reverie in the least.

_If I am to be troubled to make such an entrance, she will at least have the decency to recognize my presence_. His pride demanded attention as it prepared to take a blow. She would listen to what he had to say precisely because it hurt him so much to say it.

Clearing his throat, both to let her know of his presence as well as to choke down the lump that resided there, Erik took another few steps forward. In his hands he clutched a bundle of cloth, and he dug his fingers into it nervously as he approached her.

She looked up at the slight noise, and her chocolate orbs locked with his. Erik's feet refused to take another step; the pain that he beheld in those eyes threatened to numb his body. Eyes that once shone with defiance, with her stubborn nature, with false hope, were now empty of such pretenses. The charade was over; only the pain and sorrow of loneliness remained.

She had been tamed. He had won. But the victory did not hold the pleasure and triumph that he had supposed it would.

_What have I accomplished? I've stripped her of her hope; what does she live for now? _

_Certainly not me_, his mind insisted. _She expressed her loyalty to that bastard vicomte; she denied me once more._

The thought that Christine would willingly give herself to the Vicomte de Chagny made Erik feel physically sick. An ache settled in the pit of his stomach as he wondered if he could ever forgive her.

_Or does she even seek forgiveness?_

Realizing that he stood lost in his thoughts as Christine merely stared at him, Erik cleared his throat once more with a slight blush. _Speak, you fool. Don't stand there like a mute._

"Christine," Erik began, his tone a deep whisper. Surprisingly his tongue did not stumble over her name. Taking courage in this fact he took a few more steps toward her, his black leather boots clicking on the floor.

"Christine, I apologize for allowing myself in." He might as well get that out of the way before he took the big plunge. "I was simply worried when I did not hear any response to my knocking."

She did not respond to his voice; her eyes still remained cold and empty as she sat looking up at him blankly. Her gaze upon him made Erik's skin crawl uncomfortably.

_Why does she not say nothing? Can't she tell I mean to apologize? I suppose she isn't going to make this easy for me_, he thought as he suppressed a frustrated growl, his rage once again mounting.

Erik could count upon one hand the number of times he had apologized for his actions. It wasn't something he desired to make a habit; yet he decided he would concede…but just this once. It did not please him in the least.

Christine's eyes traveled to the bundle in his arms, and he leapt upon the chance to stall his apology.

"I brought this for you. You said it was cold in here, and I didn't want you to be uncomfortable," he mumbled, shifting nervously from foot to foot as she brought her eyes back to his face. He felt the overwhelming urge to touch his mask and make sure it was still firmly in place. Erik felt naked before her piercing eyes.

"I thank you. That was very considerate," Christine finally spoke, her tone even and without emotion. It sent a nervous chill down Erik's spine.

Never before had he been confronted with this side of his angel. Her cold, aloof manner along with her devastating beauty lent her an air of otherworldliness. Christine outwardly personified the celestial being that she so believed in; only her eyes betrayed the human emotion that she still felt, although she concealed it well. Her mysterious spell was upon him, momentarily negating his anger; his heart raced and he licked dry lips as he stood before her, dumbstruck.

_She has no right to have this power over me. She is not the woman I believed her to be. _

His fury brought his back to his senses before he found himself doing something he would later regret. He was not the beast that the vicomte was.

Breaking himself from his stupor and laying the blanket upon the end of the bed, Erik continued to shift restlessly as he contemplated his next course of action. Finally he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling and found the courage to speak once more, fighting the urge to give in to his pride and demand an apology for her violence and infidelity.

"I do not blame you if you are angry at me. I was harsh, and I said many hurtful and dishonorable things. Forgive me for making such assumptions." Erik schooled his features into neutrality, and almost succeeded in taking the edge from his voice. Almost.

_Forgive me, even if they were true assumptions_, he sneered inwardly.

For a frightening moment Erik wondered if Christine could in fact read minds. It seemed that his thought had broken the dam that held her tears at bay. With a heart-wrenching sob, Christine let her head fall into her hands and cried.

The layer of ice that had gripped his heart melted at the sight of Christine in such a state.

_Foolish man. Of course she can't read your mind. She doesn't need to when your mannerism are so harsh._

Erik's face softened as the tightness of anger receded. Drawing his eyebrows down slightly and lowering his eyes, he frowned.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, a hint of music lingering in his voice, "Please forgive me for my roughness. Sometimes I forget that I hold within my hands a delicate flower; I easily wound you with my words and actions." He withdrew his right hand from his pocket, running slender fingers through his dark hair before rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

Christine continued to cry, and Erik stood before her, not knowing what to do to stem the flow of her tears. His hands twitched, longing to hold her and wipe away her tears; his lips parted slightly in his urge to whisper soothing words into her hear, yet he knew he could not bring himself to do so. She was still angry with him, and he had still been spurned by her. With no other option but inaction, Erik stared at the toes of his boots and listened to the sorrow of his abused angel. He dared not watch.

Every tear stung his heart; every sob seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. No matter how she denied him, no matter how she wounded his pride or feelings, Erik could not bear to be the cause of her sorrow.

After a few moments Christine had regained control of herself. Her chest still heaved as she struggled for breath, but she soon steadied her breathing.

"This silence, it strangles me," came the shuddering words from the broken young woman.

Surprised at her speech and even more shocked at her choice of subjects, Erik looked up at her curiously. The light illuminated her features, softening her ragged appearance and lending a warm glow to her pale skin. Her lips trembled, but she no longer cried. The remnants of tears hung on her long eyelashes, sparkling in the candlelight. Her eyes were trained upon the wall before her although she did not look at it, but through it.

Erik was afraid to speak, afraid to break the trance that she seemed to be under. He did not have to wait long before she spoke again.

"I cannot bear it any longer. For months I have lived in silence; for months I have been denied the pleasures of music, of song, even of normal conversation. Oh, I exchanged meaningless words with him, but they held no life. There was no life there, only deathly silence. And the silence continues. It is deafening. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever hear anything again."

Christine's tone was haunted, and she spoke almost hurriedly as if she needed to tell someone – anyone – what she felt, even if it made no sense whatsoever to the shadowed figure before her. She swallowed hard before continuing; her mouth had apparently gone dry.

"But the silence was not all. It was only the beginning. There was no sunlight. In those same rooms I wandered day after day, basking in the false light of lamps. But lamplight doesn't hold the warmth of the sun. Candlelight is little better. False light. And cold. It was so cold. It is cold now," she admitted, shivering slightly in her dressing gown.

Erik frowned. This at least was something he understood, something he could remedy. He picked up the blanket he had laid upon her bed and, moving slowly so as not to startle her, wrapped it around her narrow shoulders.

She grasped it around her, and her icy hands brushed Erik's as he pulled away. Shocked at how frigid her hands were, he opened his mouth to protest her wearing such thin clothing and to insist she better clothe herself when she interrupted him with a dry laugh.

"Did you know he did not touch me? He refused to; it seemed that he viewed me as a leper. His own fiancée, and yet he could not be bothered to even hold me. He spent most of his time outside. Outside like I was not allowed to be. He came back for meals, though. He was always there, sitting across from me at the table, just sitting there."

She finally drew her tear-filled eyes to Erik. He stood mere inches from her side, numbly listening to her confessions as their meaning slowly dawned on him.

"Is this what is meant for me? Will I always be like this, a mere trophy to be won then set upon a shelf and thought of no more? His silence frightens me; your silence frightens me. It's so dark. I'm scared," she finished in a whisper, her lower lip trembling.

Her eyes begged for the comfort that she had not been given during her months of confinement. They tugged at Erik's soul, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame.

_Caution be damned_, he growled to himself, more to convince himself to take action than anything else._ She has laid her heart before you: her innocent, pure heart._

The momentary thrill of discovering her purity and the overwhelming need to soothe her insecurity did not last. Despair quickly welled within Erik's chest, threatening to choke his lungs.

_I am just like him. I've tortured her with my silence, just as that damned boy had for months. Does she view me as such an unfeeling monster as he? _

_I will not stand for that._

Settling himself on the edge of the bed next to Christine, Erik cautiously reached forth his right hand to gently brush her cheek.

"Don't be afraid, my dear. The darkness will pass. I swear it to you," he whispered huskily, his voice threatening to crack with emotion. Fleetingly he realized he was scared out of his wits; being near Christine was like playing with fire. The bolder he became the more likely it was that he would be burned. It was a wonder that his hand did not shake violently.

A slender hand slid over Erik's, sending goose bumps along his arms. Letting the blanket slide from her shoulders and cupping his larger hand in hers, Christine closed her eyes and leaned into his open palm with a shuddering sigh.

Her warm cheek upon his hand made his wounded heart race. A trail of wetness trickled down his palm as a stray tear was squeezed from Christine's closed eyes. Another hung upon her eyelashes for a moment before falling silently.

She nuzzled her face deeper within his palm, savoring his touch. She took a deep and steadying breath. His masculine scent was intoxicating, yet strangely calming in her turmoil. Encouraged by the fact that he had not yet pulled away, and desperate for the comfort of human contact, she inched closer to him. Christine stopped just short of touching him, uncertain of just how much he would indulge her need for security.

Every inch that Christine moved closer to him threatened to unnerve Erik. He longed to comfort her; his soul cried out in unison with hers. He knew what it was to be lonely. But he also knew what it was to be betrayed. His mouth was dry with his indecision.

The sight of a few stray tears that trailed down Christine's cheeks to fall upon the bed made his decision for him, loosening his tongue.

"Do not cry, angel," Erik whispered soothingly as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. "This is not your lot in life. You deserve much better: comfort, compassion, devotion, love…"

Merely hearing such words purred in his celestial voice spurred a heat that spread through her body, warming her to the core. Her heart skipped a beat in ecstasy. This was what she longed for; yet could he be the one to lead her to this better life?

"You…are my captor," she whispered painfully, sorrow filling her at her words. How she longed for them to be a lie; then she could easily drift away in the solace that Erik offered her.

Her accusation stung him, although he knew it to be true in her eyes. Clasping her chilled hands in his, his golden eyes burned into hers as he shook his head determinedly.

"No, my angel. I am not your captor; I _beg_ you not to think of me as such. Trust me, do not spurn me, and I will show you that I can be your savior. Life is cruel; fate has dealt you a mortal blow. Let me heal you. As one wounded by the world to another, let me help you in your solitude. Deny fate. Stay here with me in this sanctuary; let the sorrows of life melt away. We can live for music, and only music. Or do you not recall what that is like? _Have you forgotten your angel?_"

He sang the last part in a sorrowful whisper, and she could see the tears that brightened his golden eyes. The raw passion within his voice seemed to make the words crackle in the air. Once more he offered her his hand when she was drowning in despair. Her eyes filled with tears of relief.

_But can it be true? Can I allow myself to fall into such a blissful oblivion?_

_Can I trust him to heal my aching wounds?_

No matter how her mind raged against it, this was the man that she longed for.

This was her Angel, and for the moment she simply wanted to bask in his comforting presence.

Reaching her hand out to touch his chest, Christine's tearful eyes widened when Erik recoiled slightly from her touch. He glanced away from her, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched it.

Her heart ached with pity. _He fears me. He fears my touch. My poor angel; you freely offer your affection, but you have no idea how to accept affection in return._

Bringing her hands up to rest against his black mask and turning him gently to face her, Christine looked into Erik's eyes. Her chocolate orbs held an unasked question.

Realizing what she desired, Erik shook his head firmly and set his jaw stubbornly.

"Erik, my angel, cast off this dark mask," Christine begged, picking up the white porcelain mask from her lap. Erik had not noticed it there in the emotional whirlwind that had seized them both.

"Please…come back to the light?"

With shaking hands he took the half mask offered to him. To come back to the light. Was it something he could do at this point in his game?

Glancing swiftly back to Christine, he made his decision. Anything to please his angel. He could not refuse her when she begged.

Turning his back to the woman before him, he removed his silken mask of darkness and settled the smooth porcelain against the skin of the right side of his face. The cool air of the lair caressed the bare skin of his left cheek, and he relished it, closing his eyes for a moment. Turning back to Christine, his amber eyes glinted like jewels as they caught the candlelight.

Christine held her breath as she ran her fingers lightly over the features of his handsome face, ignoring the shudder it provoked. The half mask did not hide his handsome face as much as the discarded black one; Christine could see the passion in his unveiled left profile. The candle flames illuminated the white mask, making it glow softly in the darkness.

"Christine," came the shaky, breathy whisper from his parted lips as she settled her fingers over them. The movement of his lips tickled her sensitive hand.

She placed a single finger firmly over his lips, effectively silencing him. His eyes widened in surprise and his left eyebrow shot up in a graceful arch.

"Hold me…please?"

The amber eyes that burned closed momentarily as Erik took a deep breath. Desperately he wished she had not begged this of him.

_The more I hold you, the more I loathe letting go…_

But the trembling woman before him fixed her chocolate eyes upon him, and they shone with unshed tears.

"Please my angel…just for a moment. I need you now," she confessed in a barely audible whisper.

Blood pounded in his ears at her tone, at what he longed for. _But that is not for now, _his rational side insisted. _Patience. Comfort her now, show her you are worthy of her trust._

He could not refuse her request. Slipping his strong arm around her slender waist, Erik gathered Christine to him. Pulling her onto his lap as a father would to comfort a startled child, Erik stroked her soft curls comfortingly. She laid her head upon his chest, breathing deeply of his scent. Erik could feel her relax in his arms, content with the solace of his embrace. Her heart beat fitfully against his chest; calming the rapid pace of his own heart, Christine's followed suit until they beat in time with one another.

Once more she was the frightened child, and her Angel was there to soothe her fears.

She needed him.

* * *

**Well this was just a wee little update before I get too caught up with partying and all. My birthday's coming up soon! Woohoo, July 9th! And no, I'm not partying because of that, I'm partying because I have the week free.**

This was slightly mushy, but I hope I got across how they still both have so many issues with their relationship. Or their budding relationship, whatever. Um...thanks for reading, and I hope you'll stick around to see what happens next.

coughCRAZYRAOULcough. Ahem. Sorry.


	15. The Blossom of Hope

**Final-Threshold: **Yep, crazy Raoul. Thanks, I can't wait till my birthday comes around, which is sad because I really don't want anything haha. And no, this fic is not M rated because…well I started writing it as something for a friend of mine, and I don't think she'd want to read something that hot and steamy. That and I rather doubt I could write something like that well. I'm already in over my head as it is haha!  
**Phantomann: **I wish Erik was my muse. Actually, I don't. He'd be rather demanding, I think haha. It just comes down to luck really…sometimes I can capture him well, and sometimes I can't. Soon I'll need to immerse myself in POTO music, movies, etc. so I can keep in mind what I'm doing. It's on my to do list! But hey, if Erik was in fact my muse, you could borrow him on the weekends.  
**Emmanuelle Grey: **My apologies for the almost-tears! I am pleased that you got into the chapter, though. Might I inquire what your work in progress is about? I'm eager to read it when you post it. I wish you the best of luck in your writings, and don't go wishing you wrote like me! Everyone has their own unique style, and I'm dying to see yours!  
**Pertie: **Thank you very much for the praise; it motivates me to try my best in later chapters!  
**Soccernat11: **Your praise means a lot to me, considering you're on of the reviewers who I know will tell me when I haven't done my best (which I like, don't get me wrong). Someone needs to keep me in line! I'll do my best on this chapter, so be sure to let me know what you think.  
**Avovisto: **Fancy that, I'm listening to the POTO cd as well! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks for reading!  
**Mianne: **Well, that cough certainly wasn't tuberculosis, my friend! It was the Raoul cough…you didn't think he'd just disappear quietly, did you? Unfortunately my downfall is not enough confidence in my writing ability, but I figure that should get better the more I write. It's a learning experience! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter, and I hope Raoul doesn't ruin this one for you haha.  
**Clever Lass: **Haha, yeah Erik was having a hard time with his unfatherly thoughts; however, there still is that protectiveness to take into account. He did watch over Christine since her father's death, and he knows that she's drawn to the comfort of her Angel of Music…which is not what Erik is now, to say the least heheh. So the father/child thing? Chalk it up to a heaping helping of self-control on Erik's part. Bwah haha!  
**All That Remains: **Oh, I was wondering! I figured you probably meant what I felt: that Christine and Erik have major issues to say the least. I just didn't know if you had some certain qualm with the chapter; I try to acknowledge any flaws that are pointed out and try to fix them in the future. Sorry for that misunderstanding!  
**Kagome1514: **I'm happy you enjoyed it; but my dear girl, size isn't everything! Dang, I need to quit talking with my guy friends. The pervy-ness must go lol. On a serious note, I am shooting for longer chapters since I'm not updating every day like I was for a while. And I have no idea how many chapters this story will have since I don't really plan each chapter. It's taken on a life of its own! (screams) AHH it's ALIVEEEE!  
**Dove of Night: **Thanks! And no my friend, Raoul is quite alive and quite deranged. Well, he's not really that crazy, everyone just thinks he is, which is even more funny in my eyes. Raoul may not find them in their lair, but rest assured that they will not be allowed to comfortably remain in their hidey-hole. July will be lovely, thanks, and you know that every month is lovely when there's plenty of angst to go around. Angst writers of the world, UNITE! (by the way, I'm still keeping my eye on you!)  
**Keeper of Dreams: **Yes, I'm a Beauty and the Beast freak. I still watch it all the time, I admit. Maybe I need to go to therapy? Join a support group? "Hi, my name is Leah and I'm a Beauty and the Beast addict" haha! Thanks for reading and reviewing; I really appreciate it!  
**Shieta: **If I was a real author like J.K. Rowling or literary genius, I'd get my own autograph first lol. I have three seconds? Sounds good to me! Just enough time to choke on cake! Did you seriously read it more than once? You're kidding me (shocked). Well, thank you very much for the compliment, it makes my angsty little black heart quiver with joy!  
**A Phantom Moon: **Eww, Carlotta. smooshes her with falling chandelier Yes, I need a partner in crime, bwah haha. Raoul's ring is gone, but he isn't…yet. And I believe Erik may feel bad for his comment. Maybe. It needed to be said lol. And of course I'm going to review your story; it's angst and evil, and it makes me happy!  
**Tryptophan: **(sighs) Yes, late at night I tend to repeat myself. I think I finished the ending of that chapter a little before 2 in the morning haha. I'll try to keep an eye out for it in the future, thanks! And I believe you know who one of the mysterious people, well really you know them both but (waves hand) you get what I mean. And about those reviews…I know! Look at all of them! I'm shocked, but more than pleased that people take the time to read and drop me a line. You have not lost track of your sanity, I assure you lol. What you said makes sense, so no worries. I always enjoy reading your reviews to see what you think, because you delve so deeply into the issues and have such intriguing thoughts that I think you should be the one writing this!  
**Hazlanomi: **Fluffy mush…kinda like marshmallows when you roast 'em and smoosh 'em in s'mores. That's what I pictured, but then again I'm hungry lol. You read all the chapters in one sitting? Wow, that's endurance reading! Thanks for reading and reviewing, and I hope you'll stick around to see what craziness I come up with next…bwah haha!  
**Moonmage: **When will Erik give in to the overwhelming temptation? Well, time will tell, but we all know that Erik is not a very patient man…I think he'll need to get over his insecurities first, though. Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**Lost and Fallen: **(clutches rose in trembling hands) Really? For me? I'm more than honored! Thank you!  
**Katiebabs: **Don't we all love evil Erik? (grins) I'm glad you stumbled upon my story; yes, I try to keep things a little Leroux. I'd attempt a total Leroux story, but I don't know if I could get that dark and gothic yet haha. Thanks for reviewing!  
**Bloody Phantom24: **I hope the ants don't crawl on you while you read…that could make things a bit uncomfortable. I'd suggest ant spray, but we've used it for years, and I think our ants have mutated into the super-hardy-ants-that-don't-die. And I'll try not to get too drunk, but you know how it goes. Sad wannabe writer sitting in a dark room at night typing away, someone passes around the booze…things can get wild (wink)  
**ObsessedwiththePhantom: **I'm thrilled that you like it! No worries though; don't get too worked up. I update the moment I finish my next chapter, so I don't hold anything back from you! Stick with me! (grins)  
**TheSilentViolinist: **Well thank you for reading it! I'll be updating as soon as I can get my ideas down, so don't worry. Thanks for the review!  
**ComputerFreak101: **Wow, you have a better vocabulary than I do haha! Thank you for the compliments, and you stayed up that late/early and read this? Yay, there are people that are nocturnal like I am! I do my best writing at night, go figure. Thanks for the fav!  
**Gypsy: **"Phangasm"…I just choked on my cookie! (wipes crumbs off of the laptop that does NOT belong to me) You don't know how happy I am that you're enjoying it; I need no thanks, because the only reason why I continued past the first chapter was because of positive reinforcement from reviewers! You're steadily building my confidence, and I thank you for that! I hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters as well!  
**ChocoboSurprise: **I'm not always a quick updater, and sadly the updates will slow down for a while when I finally convince myself to begin my summer work. Yep, Erik and Christine have many issues, but at least they have the purity one out of the way. I imagine that would mean a great deal to Erik, and he'd be crushed if she had in fact slept with the vicomte. We all know that Erik would much rather blame Raoul than Christine haha. And I think Christine would have had a difficult time simply saying that she did not do anything with Raoul, because Erik is already hard enough to talk to without treading upon such delicate subjects. I also think Erik would have been rather embarrassed if she outright said it too haha! And Erik is in denial about the captor thing. If he's reluctant to put any blame on Christine, he's even more reluctant to accept it himself. He views this as necessary; without her he can't live…so he has to rationalize it with himself. Raoul needs the straightjacket, as you will see…bwah haha! Thanks for the praise!  
**ElectricDragon: **I'm glad to have a pleased reader! Erik and Christine will end up together, so don't worry. No promises that there won't be more trials along the way, though! Thanks for the review!  
**LilyEvansPotter4456: **Thanks! I'll do my best to keep the updates coming before the guilt sets in and I start my summer work…(tear)  
**The-Phantom1013: **I gratefully accept the level 50 rock-be-gone shield. I only hope they don't find level 51 kick-my-ass rocks…(nervous laughter) Thanks for reading!  
**Ladystrider77: **Note to self: rocks come when Erik and Christine are separated. Got it lol. No worries though, whenever I separate the two or have them fight, they will ALWAYS get back together. It's inevitable…they've got that crazy attraction that neither can seem to ignore. I'm glad you are appeased by the offering of semi-fluff.  
**Faust: **Chai Latte…tasty! Well thanks, now you have me craving one! I think my favorite part about Crazy Raoul is that he's not really crazy at all…everyone just thinks he is, so he can't rightly convince them that he's not bwah haha!  
**ErikPhan24601: **Alas, I don't think there will be too much fluff in my story. Antifluff is more like it. Or Semifluff. Whichever. My story has taken on a life of its own, and it seems to have become slightly dark and angsty, which means it's kind of difficult to get fluff in there that doesn't seem out of place heheh. Thanks, glad you enjoy it!

**Wow, this is the most reviews I've ever had on one chapter! Thanks to the new readers who dropped me a line, and a special thank you to the regulars for your continued support! It's so nice to see reviews that make me think "Yay! It's (insert name here) again!"

* * *

**

**Chapter Fifteen: The Blossom of Hope**

_Your hand at the level of your eyes, remember that. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes. _

_Darkness. It's so dark and cold. _

A sudden movement in the gloom. The sound of air being sliced. Something tightening around his neck, restricting his breathing. Rope. A rope.

A lasso.

XXXXXX

Tossing and turning fitfully and clawing desperately at his neck, Raoul awoke. Discovering there was nothing restraining him but the sheets that had become tangled around him with his thrashing, he wiped a cold sweat from his brow with shaking hands. His bare chest heaved as he fought to calm his rapid breathing.

_That dream again._

Glancing around the dimly lit room to get his bearings, Raoul realized it was difficult to focus his eyes for more than a few seconds on any one thing. A lamp, a picture, a mirror…he could not concentrate. His vision swam; his head pounded fiercely as if someone had been banging cymbals within his skull for hours. He attempted to push himself to a sitting position but his muscles rebelled. They were weak and ached, and they refused to support his weight. Peeking beneath the blankets, he did a quick once-over to assess any physical damage. He seemed mostly unharmed, aside from a few curious bruises in the crook of his bare arm. His hands were scraped, and he could feel similar wounds on his knees beneath the fabric of a fresh pair of pants.

He could focus enough to see that he was in his bedroom and no one was in the room at the moment, and he debated calling out for help; however, his mouth was dry, his throat was unbearably sore, and his tongue felt swollen and numb.

Trying to remember how he came to be in this state, he drew a blank. Vaguely he recalled a doctor telling him something. To sleep, if he recalled correctly. Why had that bothered him so?

_A question…I asked a question…_

_Christine._

A cold shiver ran through his body. Memories flooded back to him; the worst headache he had ever experienced settled in his skull.

_The Opera. The cellars. The voice…_

_The voice._

A wave of nausea washed over Raoul as he recalled the haunting voice within his mind.

Staring at his hands numbly, he allowed his eyes to lose their focus.

_Have I gone mad?_

He didn't feel deranged. Slightly groggy, perhaps, but not unhinged.

_I've never exactly been mentally unstable before. Perhaps one cannot tell when one is insane._

Deciding that pondering the nature of insanity only increased the intensity of his headache, Raoul gave up. Instead he concentrated on working enough moisture into his mouth to speak without it being a mere croak. He wondered vaguely if he had eaten a handful of sand; his mouth felt gritty and dry.

Thankfully, Raoul did not have to fight for long. The grating of a key turning the lock on the bedroom door resounded in his sensitive ears. The heavily polished wooden door soon opened, and a figure entered.

The dimness of the room coupled with his inability to see straight made it difficult for Raoul to determine who exactly had stumbled upon his silent struggles. Moments of squinting and concentrating established that the figure was a male of a stout build with hair drawn back in a neat ponytail. The blue eyes that gazed at him questioningly recalled to Raoul the identity of the man.

"Philippe," the name seemed to slide off of his tongue awkwardly, as if he had not spoken for years and was unused to forming coherent words.

"Yes, brother, I'm here," the man murmured softly, walking over carefully to the side of the bed. He stopped well out of arms reach, fixing Raoul with a calculating stare.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asked, although he seemed unsure of whether he wanted an answer.

Confused by his elder brother's actions, Raoul blinked a few times before answering.

"Numb…as if this…body is not my own," he admitted, fighting to form the words with rebellious lips.

"That is to be expected," Philippe spoke slowly, as if explaining a complex idea to a child. "The sedatives and medications can leave one groggy. But you need them, dear brother."

_Why does he speak to me like this? What is he hiding? What in God's name is going on?_

"Wh-why…medications…sedatives?" Raoul could only form broken sentences; his mind fought in desperation to orient itself but only fell deeper into confusion.

Seeing the panic rising in his brother's eyes, Philippe laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

"Shh, don't worry yourself over that," he whispered with an indulgent smile.

_I have a right to worry myself over whatever I please, damn it! _Raoul wanted to bellow the words in Philippe's smug face; he wanted to shake the pompous man until answers of some sort tumbled from his smiling lips.

He lacked the strength for any such violent feat; his only option was to lie back and stare dumbly at the face before him that refused to stay in focus.

The age gap between the two blonde men was considerable and difficult to bridge, even when the brothers were on good terms. Often enough, Philippe patronized and underestimated his younger brother, simply feeding the unrest and frustration that made Raoul's skin itch. At the moment, his skin seemed to be attempting to crawl from his flesh with his anger.

_This is unacceptable! It's one thing to exclude me from knowledge involving the family and business, but another entirely to exclude me from knowledge of my own wellbeing! _

"Philippe," the threatening growl that issued from his torn throat surprised even himself.

Releasing Raoul's shoulder and conveniently backing away to hover well out of his range, Philippe cautioned, "Steady, Raoul. I don't want to have to call in the doctor once again. Just relax."

"What has happened to me? Where is Christine?" Panic added a desperate edge to his hoarse voice.

"Do not worry yourself with that _girl_," Philippe ordered, the hint of a sneer curling his lips.

Raoul was more than aware of Philippe's feelings regarding his engagement to an Opera woman. Although his older brother was more than willing to tease and fondle a few of the girls, he would never accept one of them in his own home. The first time Christine and Philippe had met as future siblings-in-law, Philippe had made it more than clear that he wished nothing to do with her, fixing her with a glare suitable for a diseased beggar.

His loathing for underclass women was not, however, a suitable excuse to ignore all questions put to him. Fury rising like fire within him and lending him strength, Raoul pushed himself to a sitting position, the sheets falling to his waist. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw; he fixed icy eyes upon his evasive brother.

"Philippe…where is she?" His tone was deathly serious and as chilling as his gaze.

"You would do well to forget that woman. She has brought nothing but disgrace upon our family's name. You cannot deny the stares and whispers that follow you wherever you go. All of Paris disapproves, Raoul," Philippe scoffed.

Every word served as kindling for the burning rage rising within the young man. Shaking with emotion, he clenched and unclenched his fist in his attempt to restrain himself. By the end of the speech, he could hold back no longer.

All lethargy burned away in the heat of his fury. Slamming his fist upon the bedside table with a shocking speed, Raoul knocked the lamp upon it to the floor. The glass shattered and scattered across the floor. Seething with anger, Raoul bellowed, "WHERE IS SHE?"

"DOCTOR," Philippe turned over his shoulder and called desperately.

Sensing that the doctor was the last person he desired in the room at the moment, Raoul leaped from the bed, driven by rage and adrenaline. Grabbing the retreating Philippe by the shoulder, Raoul flung him against the wall forcefully.

"Tell me where she is, you bastard!"

"DOCTOR!" Philippe's voice was laced with panic, his eyes wide and frightened in the face of such uncommon emotion in his younger brother.

The next few moments went by in a rush. A portly man in a crisp white coat rushed into the room, followed by two nurses that trailed him like loyal dogs. Raoul panicked and fought like one possessed as the doctor and a nurse pried him off of his brother and began to drag him to his bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the second nurse open a black leather bag and begin filling a syringe. Thrashing about, he growled in frustration.

"PHILIPPE! ANSWER ME!" he roared, chest heaving and muscles quivering with his struggle for freedom.

Smug once more after being released from Raoul's grip, Philippe managed a weak tolerant smile.

"Are you upset, brother? Try to calm yourself; all this emotion will only serve to confuse your poor troubled mind even more."

A fist to the teeth ended the rest of any speech that Philippe would have continued. Clutching his split lip with shaking hands, he stared at the blood that ran onto his fingers with numb shock.

The second nurse joined the attempt to restrain the vicomte, and soon the three had pinned Raoul to his bed, holding his arms to his sides and resting their weight upon his legs to avoid any more violent outbursts.

A stab of momentary pain in his arm announced the administration of the sedative; Raoul could feel it work its way sluggishly through his veins.

His brother smiled down at him with bloody lips as his vision grew blurry once more. Before slipping into unconsciousness, a voice drifted to him through the darkness.

"Be gentle with him; the poor man is in shock. Anyone would be, after seeing the remains of his _beloved_."

XXXXXXXXX

The doctor walked into the hallway, closing the bedroom door with a weary sigh. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his bald head and face, both of which shone with an abundance of sweat.

Philippe was reclined against the stair banister, dabbing delicately at his split lip with a lacy handkerchief of his own. He looked up at the entrance of the doctor.

The hush that had fallen when the sedative had been administered seemed uncomfortable and fragile after the violent scene they had just witnessed. It was as if they had reached the end of a bloody war; they found themselves reluctant to speak, unwilling to break the welcome silence.

Neither man in the hallway was eager to raise the subject of the cause of the fierce disturbance.

"…Would you like me to look at that?" the portly doctor finally asked, gesturing at Philippe's lip with his sweat-soaked handkerchief.

Philippe's eyes narrowed marginally; he fully realized what the doctor would have liked to ask, but was too afraid to propose.

_I suppose all of Paris would like to know the same. What exactly happened to the young Vicomte de Chagny at the Paris Opera House?_

_And I suppose I cannot hide his condition forever. He is already missed at many social gatherings…but I can certainly try my best to stifle the spread of the news. For now, at least._

Pushing himself from the banister and walking confidently to the doctor, he shook his head.

"I thank you, monsieur, but the bleeding has already stopped," he was all diplomacy and smiles.

"Yes…well…I should be going. It is getting late," the doctor shifted his considerable weight from foot to foot nervously. A sheen of sweat reappeared on his brow.

_Just waiting to go and spread the gossip to his wife, I'd imagine. _The head of the Chagny family's smile grew despite his dark thoughts. He had mastered this mask of detached politeness; it was necessary for someone of his station, and he had used it many times before to get what he wanted.

Patting the madly perspiring man on the shoulder, Philippe agreed, "Yes, I suppose it is growing late. Is a nurse to spend the night in case we find ourselves in need of her services?"

The white coated man picked up on the insinuation, and nodded.

"Both of them will remain on hand if you need them. H-He should not wake for many hours yet, though," the doctor's reluctance to touch directly upon the subject was evident in his hastily spoken words.

"I see; thank you. I shall have the carriage called for you. And monsieur," a heavy velvet purse mysteriously found its way into the doctor's plump fingers, "I thank you for your swift aid. My dear younger brother is rather ill, perhaps a bad bought of the flu, but he shall be back on his feet the moment it clears up and he recovers. Correct?" Philippe feigned a concerned frown, drawing his eyebrows together.

Staring down at the bag clutched in his fingers, the doctor hefted it to feel its weight. Bringing his dark eyes back up to meet the deceptively innocent blue eyes of the man before him, he nodded and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Yes, a bad case of the flu. With treatment and bed rest the young man should be well in no time."

"Wonderful news!" Philippe smiled, clapping the doctor on the shoulder and spinning on his heel. "I will have a servant show you the way out…good evening, good doctor."

"Good evening, monsieur," the doctor muttered automatically, still in shock at the mysterious blonde man's antics. He watched his retreating form until he was lost from sight in the twisting hallways. Shrugging, the doctor shoved the purse in his coat pocket and followed a servant to the carriage that awaited him.

The next day an abundance of flowers and letters arrived professing the Parisian society's distress at the condition of the young vicomte…and expressing hopes for his swift recovery from the flu.

XXXXXXX

Dark clouds roiled and milled in the sky above, threatening rain that would not come. Occasionally lightning would flash in the underbellies of those looming clouds, but no thunder gave voice to the silent turmoil within them. It was not late in the evening, but a premature darkness had already fallen, making it difficult to see more than a few meters in any direction. The chirp of crickets and respective noises of other creatures of the evening were pointedly absent, lending the small clearing behind the Opera House an alien and unnatural feel.

It was an unusual night suited for unusual deeds.

Juggling a lantern and a large bundle in her arms, little Meg Giry made her way to the edge of the clearing, stopping as she reached the edge of the trees. Hooking her lantern on a broken branch and clutching the bundle closer to her breast, her blue eyes fell upon the ground before her.

A gaping hole opened in the earth with a freshly turned pile of dirt beside it. Its hollow expanse resounded with the young girl's heart; tears sprang forth in her eyes, quickly falling on the exposed soil.

Kneeling down and ignoring the stains she would undoubtedly receive upon her dress, she untied her heavy cloak and let it slide to the ground. Sniffling quietly with her tears, Meg reverently unfolded the bundle of fabric on her lap.

The grey dress appeared almost black in the coming night, making the bloodstains barely visible. If it were not for the gashes and tears from the weapon that had been used to end her friend's life, Meg could have easily imagined it to be an ordinary dress.

_But it's not an ordinary dress. It's all I have left of Christine…it's the testament of the horror she underwent for keeping her bargain with a devil. _

Bitter tears fell onto the dress, soaking into the ravaged fabric. She clenched her hands until her knuckles shone white in the lamplight.

_I could have stopped her. But the least I can do now is give her some sort of a burial._

Considering the body of Christine Daae had not been discovered, no actions had been taken for a traditional burial. How could they be? Without a body, the funeral would have been rather pointless; or at least that is what she had been told by the priest she had confronted.

But Meg required the closure that a funeral would provide. No ceremony would fill the space that the loss of Christine had left in her heart, but the thought of ignoring her passing was unacceptable. She had chosen this clearing as the best place to bury the painful emotions she had been left with, along with the tattered dress. Earlier she had spent hours after her ballet rehearsal working the rocky soil to make a sufficient hole; the pain and soreness of her muscles was nothing to the agony of the thoughts that ran through her head…the thoughts that she had suppressed, but that reappeared anew when she was faced with her final goodbye to her best friend.

The lantern gutted out; she had neglected to refill it with oil properly before slipping out to the makeshift grave after dinner. The eerie light of the dying sun through the oppressive clouds provided enough light to see vaguely, however. The grave before her seemed like a yawning mouth in the depths of the earth, ready to swallow the memories of her childhood friend.

Unable to rein in her emotions any longer, Meg choked out a bitter cry. Clutching one hand to her mouth and another to her aching heart, she looked up with tear filled eyes and questioned the rolling clouds.

"Wh-Why? Dear God, WHY? Why didn't I s-stop her? I could have…I c-could have stopped her from…from THIS!" She flung the dress from her; it landed halfway in the grave, the arms and bodice hanging out as if fighting to cling to life.

Her violent self-directed anger dissipated as the reality of the situation sunk in.

_But I did not stop her. And now she is dead._

Meg's slim frame shook with her subdued sobbing, and her blonde hair fell around her face like a halo as she hid her tears in her hands.

"Christine…I'm sorry. I'm s-so sorry…," her whisper was heavy with the despair that tightened her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Through eyes blurred with hot tears, Meg saw that her task remained unfinished. Sniffling and scrubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand, she stood shakily and walked to the tree where she had left the shovel.

Returning to the grave, she bent and gently folded the dress once again, placing it gingerly in the bottom of the ragged hole she had dug. Her head swam as she stood, still gasping for breath through her sobs, and turned to the pile of dirt beside the grave. Meg's weary muscles rebelled as she stabbed the shovel into the soil. The shovel shook in her trembling grip, spilling dirt as she swung it to the hole.

Something settled across her shoulders as a firm hand rested on her own, steadying the shovel. In shock, Meg dropped both the shovel and the cloak that had been placed upon her, stumbling away and narrowly missing the hole she had dug in her haste to see who had interrupted her grim task. Her heart stopped momentarily as she squinted her bloodshot eyes to see the silhouette before her.

When she recognized the intruder, it only sent her into deeper panic. The man's ebony skin made it difficult to see him at first, but the jade eyes that shone from his swarthy face pierced the soul. Stories Meg herself had told of the evil eye of the mysterious man flooded back to her, and vaguely she wondered if his eyes in fact held the power to bestow a curse with a simple glare.

Unruffled by the flighty nature and terrified glance of the woman before him, the Persian plunged the shovel in the dirt pile so that it stood upright and bent to retrieve Meg's cloak. He held it out to her and waited. She did not move.

Deciding it would do well to break the ice that had settled between them, the man bowed politely and said in a deep voice, "My apologies, mademoiselle. I simply thought you might require some help. You did have rehearsals all day; I assume you are quite exhausted." His French was flawless, but a hint of an accent betrayed his origins.

Meg stared. Many times she had seen the man wandering around the Paris Opera House; it seemed he was always around, yet she had never spoken with him.

_Why is he here? What does he want with me?...And what right does he think he have to walk in on Christine's funeral? _Anger welled within her at his intrusion.

Raising her chin and hastily wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, Meg strode past the Persian, careful not to meet those jade eyes.

"I assure you, I am quite capable of finishing my task, _monsieur_," she said, managing to keep the quiver from her voice. She grabbed the shovel and began filling the hole.

"You can be on your way," she stated. It was not a suggestion.

Lowering his extended hand and letting the cloak slip to the ground once more, the man's calculating eyes rested on the stubborn girl as she shoveled the soil back into its resting place.

"Whom do you bury?" he finally questioned, his voice even.

Meg glared over her shoulder; somehow she felt he mocked her.

"It is none of your business," she spat.

A long pause stretched between the two.

"…It is not your fault," the Persian stated casually to the sky, his hands shifting his frock-coat to rest in his pockets.

The comment struck the wrong chord with Meg; she flung the shovel down and spun on her heel, fresh tears in her eyes once more.

"D-Don't you DARE presume whose fault it was or wasn't. You d-don't know anything; you don't know w-what happened to…" her anger subsided with each word she spoke. It had no effect on him; the words rolled off of him as if they were mere gusts of wind upon a mountain, unable to move him at all.

His unblinking stare unnerved Meg, and she instead concentrated on the crumpled grass before her slippers.

"It is not your fault," he repeated patiently. "Erik would have had her whether you discouraged her to go to him or not."

"No…n-no. If she had simply stayed out of the cellars, she wouldn't have been murdered by that hellish monster!" Meg's voice cracked with a choked back sob.

Walking past her to pick up the shovel, the Persian finished filling the grave. She stood and watched, still slightly angered by his ignorant words.

Turning and leaning his weight upon the shovel, his eyes glittered in the gloom.

"She is not dead. Christine Daae is quite alive, I assure you."

Vaguely Meg wondered if the man was deranged.

_Deranged or not, what a cruel game to play! He sees my pain, and yet he feels the need to mock me._

"Cease your disturbed ramblings!" she spat, breast heaving once more with emotion. "Why must you mock me? Christine was my best friend, and you dare say such a thing when her remains lie in that grave before you!"

"All I saw within that grave was a bloodied dress," the man pointed out as if commenting on the weather.

"That's all that is left! That demon must have done terrible things to her…poor, poor Christine…" she broke off as her throat tightened with emotion.

"But is it? Is that truly all that is left of Christine Daae?"

The question hung in the air as Meg fixed the man with a withering glare.

Deciding on another tactic, the man began, "Think for a moment. The world thought Erik was dead. As we both now know, he is not."

"Apparently," Meg's voice crackled with malice.

Continuing as if he had not been interrupted, the Persian stated, "Deception. And now the dear mademoiselle Daae disappears, and her bloodstained gown is discovered. No body. Convenient?" the man questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"Not for Christine! She's lying dead God knows where!" Meg snarled at the man, eyes flashing with anger.

Taking a deep breath, the Persian begged, "Please, mademoiselle, you miss my point. If it is within Erik's ability to deceive the world as to his own death, why not Christine Daae's?"

The words seemed to echo in Meg's head.

_Deception. That monster DID fake his own death; why not Christine's? _

The blossom of hope bloomed in her heart, but she suppressed it.

Drawing her eyebrows together, she questioned the silent man, "But what would he have to gain from that?"

"Her love."

* * *

**Lack of Erik and Christine in this chapter, but since they've had a few chapters solely to themselves I thought I needed to get the plot rolling again. Had to put the Persian in. It was a must. I could have dragged this out longer, but we're moving my grandpa this weekend (yay. sarcasm.) and I wanted to get this up. Meg and Nadir's plan will be furthered in the next chapter, and Erik and Christine will pop up again, so stay tuned!**


	16. On the Wings of Song

**Avovisto: **I try to keep my updates coming. When an idea comes or I know what I want to happen in the storyline next, I have to sit down and type it out while it's in my head. I tried using notes, but it just isn't the same. So the answer to your question is no. I don't have these already written or typed up. My secret is that whenever I get on the laptop to type up my summer work, I get sidetracked and end up writing this instead haha!**  
Soccernat11: **Thanks! I found myself getting all caught up in what was happening with Erik and Christine, and I had to stop myself and remember that there was a plotline to further, and for that I needed Meg and Nadir. I doubt it will make all the hardcore EC shippers happy, but oh well haha! My note was entirely truthful; I appreciate you letting me know what you think! Thanks again!  
**Kagome1514: **Thanks! I try to get other characters in there from time to time, but next chapter Christine and Erik come into play again, so stick with me!  
**Bloody Phantom24: **Erik chapter coming up! And you can't have my Erik; Christine's got first dibs on him lol. Perhaps she would allow you to borrow him on the weekends.  
**The-Phantom1013: **Tricky rocks. I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter, and hey, the next one has Erik in it! (it's sad that I look forward to that so much myself). Thanks for the early birthday thing; I think I'm going to party for weeks. That's the joy of a summer birthday haha!  
**Broken-Mask: **Yay, another one comes from the shadows to drop me a line! I'm glad you've been reading along with me for a good while; and no, Erik just isn't Paris' playboy sweetheart. It's fun to pretend though, at times haha! Nadir has a habit of showing up just in time to "save the day" for Raoul and Christine's relationship, but it won't be nearly as easy this time around, I assure you. And Meg couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it; she's a gossip, and she's got some juicy news now! Thanks for the review!  
**No One Mourns the Wicked: **That's alright; I don't demand a review for each chapter. It's nice, but I realize that it's a lot of work to keep up with for a reader. I mean, you're trying to enjoy the story and then you have to bother yourself with reviewing. That's why I appreciate it so much, though! Nadir needed to come back; he was completely ignored in the movie, so he deserves his time in this story! And I couldn't help but giggle slightly at Raoul when I was writing; he does get worked up easily, and he himself isn't sure of his sanity bwah haha. Thanks for the review!  
**Final-Threshold: **If I can manage to make you feel pity for the character you hate, I think I'm doing rather well haha! And don't worry, you can go back to not pitying him when he…well, nevermind! Can't spoil the story!  
**Emmanuelle Grey: **I just enjoy playing with your heart (wink). Aww, that's sad that your story didn't turn out. I've had my fair share of lame ideas; it's a miracle I've gotten this far with my story now that I think about it. I used to write little tales for my best friend, and some of them were…rancidly lame for lack of better words. But don't be discouraged! Sometimes good ideas just sneak up behind you and slap you over the head with a frozen fish when you least expect it (dear GOD where did that come from? Ahem. Anyways.) What exactly might you be looking to write about? POTO perhaps?  
**A Phantom Moon: **Sane Raoul lacks the entertainment factor, I think. Nooses on the pillow? Evil…I will keep it in mind lol. And I brought Philippe back from the dead because I decided he would make a lovely pawn in my story (although I bet not many people will enjoy his presence). And ruling the angsty horribly dark world of POTO fiction is not Raoul-crazy…it's Erik-crazy, which is frightfully appealing haha! Flu…crack…same difference. And my grandpa's move certainly won't break his back; might break my grandma's: she's been having a great time without him waking her up at five in the morning and demanding coffee (snorts). Glad you enjoyed!  
**Shdwcat27: **EC will return shortly, the last chapter was the commercial break. Sir Foppiness is quite pitiable, I must admit. It's sad, because I don't necessarily hate him, my subconscious mind just dictates that he must suffer. Terribly, as Erik has. Turnabout is fair play. Bwah haha.  
**Electricdragon: **A Persian fan! According to my friend, who is Persian, "Persians are sexy." She tends to remind me this at least once every school day. I pity Raoul as well, but he will have his moment, you shall see…And aren't we all eager for a little romance? Haha  
**Mianne: **My apologies for the confusion; Philippe is in fact dead in the book, but this is just me being stubborn and bringing him back to life for the purpose of having someone direct the torture of Raoul. I personally thought his death could have been orchestrated better in the book, so I figured I'd give it another shot…I mean, give HIM another shot. Him. Right. (shifty eyes) A little taste of the light, and then I plunge everyone back down into the darkness of the grave…bwah haha!  
**Orianna-2000: **Philippe? We'll call him sly haha; he's doing this to keep the knowledge of Raoul's apparent insanity from reaching the Parisian society. I was wondering if anyone would question my choice of illness (thank you for doing so, I wouldn't want you to be left wondering); I wasn't going for something he would get over quickly, really, because one doesn't exactly get over insanity in a rush. I had Philippe suggest the flu because it will give him some time to come up with a better idea to hide Raoul, it isn't something that would allow nosey visitors, and it could possibly lead to death. Philippe doesn't think Raoul will die naturally of his madness, but terrible things may befall Raoul if he becomes too inconvenient for the family (if you get what I mean). Okay, I'll admit, Philippe is cruel (nervous laughter).  
**LilyEvansPotter4456: **Never fear, they will return in this chapter! Thanks for the birthday wishes, I intend to have a happy one. And if I don't…(swinging Punjab lasso).  
**ComputerFreak101: **Paradise is right! And actually, I'm terrible with words. My friend and I play Scrabble, utilizing our impressive vocabulary to spell words like "farts" and "cat" ("farts" was mine. It was longer, so I won) I'm not always fair, but I hope to make up for lack of EC with this chapter. I see that Erik's ways of persuasion have rubbed off on you; delightfully frightening! Haha, thanks for the review!  
**Tryptophan: **I tried to have a nice Philippe, but then I figured he wouldn't be happy in the face of the threat that Raoul poses to the family's name. I've never seen that version of the Phantom, but my gosh it sounds interesting lol. You're right, no Chagny wil cut it; Christine belongs with Erik. Now that you point it out, the Persian is kind of bent on rescuing Christine. I'd read a Persian/Christine fic if you ever found one; a good writer could pull that off well (but I'd still want Erik to be with her haha). It'd be an interesting twist to things, though. Yay, mythology! I do have a soft spot for mythology, so I will most definitely bear with you on that note. And yes, Meg was highly influenced on what you would enjoy having a character yell, but I don't quite know if she's into porkchops lol. I'm trying not to write quite as late at night, but it doesn't work most of the time XD You're right about the music thing; I haven't yet found the music to which I write best. Are there that many people who have me on their list? I might face a riot (nervous laughter) I shudder to think what will happen when I have to slow down the chapters to do my summer work….And you're my antifluff dealer. Wow, sounds like drugs (contemplates that). As always, thank you for the review, I always see it and think "Yay! Trypt read it!"  
**TheatreAngel: **I don't much like Philippe either, hence the letting him get a fist to the teeth courtesy Crazy Raoul. I needed a sly schemer on the "good people" side, to counterbalance the ultimate evilness of sinister Erik… And someone else to give Raoul hell lol.  
**Nade-Naberrie: **(eyes wide, doing the bass face) WOW. Is it possible for your fingers to develop a stutter? Because I'm having a hard time typing this in my happiness! YOU…HERE…READING (points and blushes furiously). And you flatter me immensely; I do try my best, but it's all a learning experience, so I hope to improve my writing skills (or lack thereof) as I go along. You make my little black heart happy; your stories are phenomenal, and you comment on my little tale! Thank you for the review!  
**PhantomsHeart: **Welcome back! I'm glad you enjoyed the last few chapters (although I myself had the hardest time pulling my writing away from Erik and Christine in ch. 15). Erik is the puppet master; he's got everyone dancing away in his twisted little play (evil grin). "Squee" is undoubtedly the word that I live for haha! Thanks for reading!  
**AngelofOpera: **Erik is glad that you came to the realization that you love the story, but he is quick to point out that you can't refuse to love any story with him in it (wink) Just kidding! Thanks for letting me know you like it, and I'll be sure to keep working on the upcoming chapters!  
**Keeper of the Dreams: **I believe Erik would find it most unagreeable as well. He'd have my head if I allowed him to orchestrate his beautiful scheme only to take Christine away. You're right; I wouldn't deny TRUE destiny….or Erik (nervous glance at Punjab lasso). No one denies Erik. Thanks for the threat…I mean review lol!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: On the Wings of Song**

Love is a fragile flower that blooms in secrecy. Its seed is planted unknowingly in the heart; over time, with the proper care, it flourishes, transforming into the most beautiful blossom of all. It cannot be rushed.

Love is a delicate thing; it withers and dies with rough handling. It cannot be forced, and if it is, the flower will become twisted and faded. It will draw in on itself, throwing out protective thorns. The beauty that once was will decay, leaving behind only hatred and fear.

But could it in fact go full-circle? Could fear, with a gentle hand, be turned to love?

Could the voice of an angel lend wings to a fallen soul?

Erik's mind raced as he continued to hold Christine, purring soothing words into her ear although he barely paid attention to what he in fact said. The girl in his arms seemed to take more comfort in the sound of his melodious voice than the words anyway; within a few minutes she had allowed her eyelids to flutter closed as her breathing slowed back to normalcy.

Looking down upon her – an angel in repose, curled upon his lap and reclining within his arms – Erik's breath caught in his chest as his heart skipped a beat, thudding louder and harder afterward, as if to make up for it. A pleasant tingling sensation ran down his spine. His mouth ran dry, his jaw muscles tensing minutely as he bit his tongue to keep from…

_From what! _

_I need to get her off of me, I can't think straight._

Resisting the urge to growl in frustration, Erik grasped Christine's shoulders firmly and pulled her away from him enough to look down into her eyes. The traces of tears remained; her eyelashes kissed her cheeks as she blinked a few times when Erik's hands cupped her face and gentle thumbs brushed the tears away. Even that simple movement was maddening; Erik's hands lingered on her momentarily, feeling the softness of her warm skin under his palms…

"Christine," the heat in his voice made the young woman start, but before she could respond, he firmly placed her beside him on the bed and stood with his back to her.

For a moment, Christine wondered if she had somehow offended her mysterious angel. She could see his agitated breathing and the tension in his shoulders.

Shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, Erik ran a shaking hand through his slicked back hair.

Turning suddenly, a light glinted in his amber eyes that had nothing to do with the candles. Kneeling down before her and grasping her hands within his, he ran his fingers slowly over them, calling forth goose bumps on Christine's skin. Her lips parted with silent gasp, but he did not see; his eyes were glued to her hands as he began to speak in a low and hesitant voice.

"Christine…if you can trust me, and I can trust you…What I mean to say is…" he paused for a moment, licking lips that had gone dry in his uncertainty.

Gathering his courage, he looked up at her, his burning eyes locking with hers.

"If you can believe in me, I will show you the freedom you so long for," his husky tone and heated glance called to Christine's mind several things that he could mean, and none of them had to do with letting her go. She blushed, but she prayed he wouldn't notice due to the fact that her face was already red and splotchy with crying.

Tilting his head curiously at her silence, he studied her face. _A blush? _Reining in his ecstasy at such a response, he rose to his feet, still holding her hands. Gently pulling her to her feet, he backed up to lead Christine to the door as much as to keep a safe distance between them.

Releasing one of her hands in order to open her door, he turned from her momentarily, but quickly returned his hungry gaze to her as he walked her out of her room and toward his own. His heart beat a strong rhythm against his chest; the hand that held Christine's suddenly seemed awkward and rough in comparison to the perfect fingers in his. Her warmth spread through her hand and into his; it seemed to course through his veins as each cautious step brought them closer to their destination.

As they reached the door, Erik more than half expected Christine to come to her senses and run from him. She stood innocently looking at the doorknob; a lamb at the threshold of the wolf's den.

_But I have no intentions of doing anything of – THAT – sort. Of course not._

Taking a deep breath to smother the lack of those intentions, Erik opened the door and released her hand. The door swung inward with a muted creaking, revealing pitch blackness inside. Erik looked meaningfully at Christine; she appeared confused, and her hand twitched minutely as if eager to seek out his own once more.

Erik took a step backward into the gloom, the candlelight from the hallway faintly playing over his features and shining in his golden eyes. He contemplated the girl before him for a moment.

He could just lead her into the darkness; she would follow him if he urged her, even though she loathed leaving the light even momentarily.

But she would come to him on her own. She must trust him before he would allow her the freedom he had promised.

"Erik…?" Christine's timid voice trembled with confusion as she took a hesitant step forward. She eyed the gathering gloom around her angel with uncertainty; did he mean her to follow him?

Taking another step backwards, Erik allowed himself to become one with the darkness; only his glittering gold eyes shone, reflecting the glow of the distant candles.

It had come to this. Christine stood, bathed in the warm comforting light of candle flames; it danced in her chocolate curls, highlighting certain strands with an intriguing shade of copper. A rosy color dusted her cheeks, matching the shade of her maddeningly parted lips. She was a creature of day; she belonged above, caressed by the tender heat of the sun's rays.

And yet she stood before him, peering into the darkness: a blossoming young woman full of life curiously wondering what lay beyond the grave. Erik waited patiently, the shadows wrapped around his lean frame like a cloak. More than ever he realized the difference between himself and his love; more than ever he hated himself for caging such a beautiful songbird and keeping her in this murky underworld.

_What am I thinking? She mustn't follow me. To willingly accept the mockery of life that I offer her is against her nature; to ask her to accept is blasphemous. _

Reason wrestled with passion as Erik bit his lip in contemplation of the girl before him. The expression upon Christine's face threatened to tear his heart out; confusion and hesitation was evident, and she knew not what to do in the face of his unspoken request.

_Damn it; she's so young, so hurt. I don't know…I don't think I have the power to be the savior I promised. _A lump rose in his throat, and an unsteady sigh escaped his lips.

_But can I let her go? The wheels are already in motion; there is no stopping things now._

Erik's thoughts were interrupted by something coming to rest on his forearm. He recoiled instinctively, allowing the darkness to swallow him as he stepped back hastily.

Christine stood before him, peering into the gloom, searching for his shape in the shadows. She trembled visibly, but her jaw was set stubbornly.

She had come of her own accord.

A burning heat seared through his veins, making him feel lightheaded.

_She trusts me…_

Skirting around Christine unseen, Erik closed the door with a click, cutting off the only source of light and plunging them into complete and utter darkness.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Christine gasped quietly. She blinked a few times to make sure her eyes were really open, but she recognized no real difference either way. She could see nothing.

Darkness.

Fear rose within Christine, resting within her lungs like water and threatening to suffocate her. As a child, she had been frightened of the isolation that darkness brought, and once again she felt utterly alone.

She did not want to be alone.

"Erik…?" she called forth in a whisper, all that she could manage at the moment.

"_I am here_," came the whisper close to her ear. It sparked shivers like electricity running through her body; a mix of fear and…something else.

Her fingers sought the source of the voice and met with cool porcelain. Tracing the mask, they reached the curve of his lips. Her heart skipped a beat as she drew her fingers back as if burned.

Erik made no sound.

Hesitantly her fingers sought his lips again. Fascinated by the fact that he allowed her to touch him, Christine did not pull back again. Erik's lips curled into a smile beneath her fingertips, and suddenly they were gone.

Lowering her hand, Christine stood completely still. She still shivered in uncertainty, but she could sense his presence within the room. It was strangely calming.

Her breathing turned ragged as she sensed him very close to her.

_My imagination, _she insisted. But she did not move all the same.

"What do you fear, Christine…?" he purred the question. She could feel his breath mingling with hers; if she moved even an inch she was certain their lips would meet…

_A question, he just asked you a question!_

Snapping back to reality, Christine tilted her head slightly, "Wh-what?"

"What are you afraid of? You're quivering," Erik's voice held the slightest hint of…

_Amusement? What is so funny?_

"I'm not afraid," she insisted, her stubbornness rising, and with it her courage. _Is he mocking me?_

"Not of the darkness?"

"No, most certainly not. It's just darkness," Christine professed, forcing herself to cease her shaking. Her tone rang with more confidence than she felt, but there was no reason for Erik to know that.

"Not of me?"

Silence.

"No."

"Had to pause and think?" He chuckled sadly, moving across the room and giving her room to breathe. She had not realized she had been holding her breath for quite some time.

The moment that she was sure she could speak without gasping, she protested to where she believed him to be standing, "I didn't need time to think if you scare me or not. You've had more than enough chances to harm me if you so pleased." She disliked admitting it, but it was true.

"But you still had to think," Erik's murmured from his place behind Christine.

She gasped once more, then swallowed hard, not daring to turn. Intrigued by the simple effect of his words, Erik's fingers ghosted across Christine's exposed collar bone as he pulled her to him with his other arm around her waist. He relished the shiver that the motion triggered.

"Shh," he hushed Christine, his lips ticking her ear. "For someone who doesn't fear me, you certainly tremble enough."

She didn't reply. It was all she could do to keep her lungs working properly. With her vision rendered useless in the pitch black, her other senses were heightened. She was quite aware of every place of contact between her and the man behind her, from his gentle hand upon her shoulder, to his strong arm around her, to his chest against her back. His masculine scent overwhelmed her, a combination of the crisp chill of the night air, soap, and the unique and intoxicating scent that was Erik. She could hear her own heart pounding within her ears.

With the shifting of fabric against fabric, Christine felt Erik move behind her as he slid his arm from her waist and settled a band of cloth gently over her eyes. As he tied it behind her head, careful not to catch her hair in it, Christine touched it with curious fingers.

"A blindfold? But it's already so dark in here," Christine protested halfheartedly; she was more than willing to do whatever it took to see this promised freedom and to be led there by her angel of music.

He responded only by singing snatches of a soothing song in another language. The foreign tongue did nothing to dampen the beauty of the song, the lullaby, and Christine listened intently as he skirted her and moved to stand before her. Trailing his fingers along the outline of her jaw to her chin, Erik's fingers sought her hand once more. Christine clasped his hand firmly; she would not be left alone in the dark with a blindfold on.

Sensing her cleverly concealed fears, Erik's lips curled into a smirk as he continued to sing. _She may not fully trust me, but she certainly isn't willing to turn back now._

Leading his beautiful angel to a precise area on the wall of his bedroom, the fingers of Erik's free hand found the hidden release for the trapdoor, and the distinctive grinding of stone echoed in the tunnel behind the door as it swung open. A gust of cold air rushed into the room, ruffling the skirts of Christine's thin gown and causing her to shiver.

Mentally Erik made a note to fix that once he had removed Christine from his bedroom and the darkness that encouraged equally dark thoughts.

Christine's slippers met cold and slightly damp stone as she followed the hauntingly compelling voice of her angel. She did not care where they were headed; he could take her anywhere he pleased as long as he didn't stop singing.

She followed him for she knew not how long, simply walking toward the source of the captivating music, led by a steady hand. Christine could tell, however, that the floor sloped upward gradually, and the bone-chilling cold of the lair softened to only a minor coolness.

Stone ground against stone once more, and Erik stopped his song long enough to caution, "Careful, my dear…stairs."

She bumped her toe on the first stair, and was sure not to do the same on the next ones. She attempted to count the stone stairs in her mind, but Erik's continued song had her repeating numbers in her inattentiveness. Christine gave up.

_Not as if I could get this far anyway; I was caught in his room before. _

But would she need to attempt escape again?

_He's promised me a taste of freedom…maybe that is all I will desire: freedom._

_And a savior._

Christine took another step, and stumbled forward awkwardly when another stair did not rise to meet her slipper-clad foot. Strong hands steadied her as she caught her balance and turned her head blindly around her as Erik stopped singing.

The serenade of crickets filled her ears; each one seeking to outdo its fellow musician so that its song would be heard above all. She could feel the crunch of grass under her feet on the uneven ground as Erik led her along once more.

Christine took a deep breath of the night air, filling her lungs with its crispness. A light breeze rippled her skirts, bringing with it a chill that raised goose bumps along her arms, but she did not heed the cold.

_Outside. I'm outside; above the ground…_

Joy swelled within her and a single tear slid from under her blindfold and down her cheek.

Erik did not notice apparently, for the crunch of his boots upon the grass did not cease and he tugged insistently upon her hand.

He followed a weaving path, and vaguely Christine wondered what he was avoiding. Reaching her free hand forth during their winding walk, her fingers met rough and pitted rock. She paused momentarily and ran her hand upwards, finding a broken shape hewn from the stone. The shape tugged at the back of her mind.

…_A cross? _

A firm hand closed over hers, drawing it away from the unusual form.

"Curious girl…do not seek to know what will frighten you," Erik's deep voice warned.

Swallowing hard and wondering what a cross could possibly do to frighten her, Christine nodded and did not protest when he gently pulled her hand to lead her away from the broken stone cross.

Suddenly Christine bumped into a solid and warm wall. Touching it, she felt taught muscles. Erik had stopped in his tracks, allowing Christine to collide with him.

"A bit of warning would have been-" Christine began, only to be interrupted sternly.

"Wait here." It was a softly spoken command, but it held a hint of steel to its tone.

He would not accept any misbehavior.

Christine nodded in acceptance, hoping he was in fact looking at her because she could not form an answer in words.

Her fingers itched to rip the blindfold from her eyes. The prospect of being alone and blind in an unknown place sent shivers of fear down her spine. She would not let Erik know, however.

_I am no child. I don't need him to hold my hand._

She desperately regretted that thought when the comforting warmth of Erik's hand was absent. She could hear his footsteps as he stalked off into the night, and the silence that followed was more than a little disconcerting.

Slowly but surely the sounds of the night that had seemed so friendly and inviting began once more, although they now seemed foreboding and frightening. The wind tugged at her gown like frigid fingers, and tree leaves rattled like bones.

_Christine…calm yourself! You'd think you were standing in a graveyard by the way you're jumping._

And she most certainly wasn't.

The cry of a night bird made her jump, her heart coming to rest in her throat as she stifled a scream.

Something wound around her waist and she thrashed about madly, trying to free herself as she shook with terror.

"Christine, calm!" Erik ordered, pain lending a stern edge to his voice.

"Erik!" she gasped in surprise, ceasing her struggles.

It took all her strength to not melt in his arms. She shivered, half with fear and half with cold. Something settled over her shoulders, and she drew it around her. It was his cloak. It still held some of his residual warmth, and the thick fabric trapped her own heat against her shaking body.

"Better?" he asked, his fingers clasping it about her neck and then stroking her cheek. She did not pull back, and that brought a pleased, but unseen, smile to Erik's face.

The cloak was rather oversized, and it hung from her slim frame and trailed on the ground, but somehow it did not look ridiculous. Not on Christine.

"Yes…can I take the blindfold off yet? I can't see anything at all," she whimpered softly.

"_I was scared. Don't leave me again." _

_At least that's what I want to say._

"In a moment, my dear. Just a moment longer," restrained excitement echoed in his voice.

His hands circled her narrow waist, and Christine found herself swung into the air and placed upon a horse. She ran her fingers through its mane and smiled.

"Cesar," she whispered, and the horse whickered in reply.

Erik chuckled as he vaulted up behind Christine. Settling herself back into his chest, Christine laced her fingers in his shirt, needing the stability that he offered. Her heart skipped a beat, hinting that stability was not her sole motive.

Suddenly Cesar was galloping forward, and Christine flinched with a gasp of surprise. The wind whistled in her ears as the ground was swiftly eaten up by the horse's gait. The pounding of his hooves on the earth echoed that of Christine's heart as she waited patiently for the end of the journey and the promised freedom that awaited her.

Minutes passed, and finally Cesar slowed his breakneck speed, coming to a trot. Erik reined the white stallion in and nimbly jumped to the ground. His hands found her waist once more, causing a heated blush to spread on Christine's pale cheeks, and he gently brought her down to stand next to him.

He untied her blindfold with the utmost of care, and delicately he allowed it to fall from her eyes.

XXXXXXXXXX

Stepping back, Erik watched Christine intently as he pocketed the blindfold. The girl blinked her enchanting brown eyes, trying to adjust them to the light.

Her sparkling eyes widened with wonder as she took in her surroundings.

Twinkling stars shimmered like diamonds in the velvet sky, surrounding the orb of the moon that lit the entire clearing with its bluish light. The rippling waters of a gurgling stream reflected the light like a shattered mirror as it swept across the clearing and disappeared into the thick darkness of the surrounding trees. Lush grasses waved in the gentle breeze like a green ocean.

Erik waited nervously for her reaction. He had happened upon this clearing in his search for a water source for his lair years ago, and had spent many a day watching the changing seasons in the seclusion of the trees. This was his place of solitude when the air of the grave-like rooms of his lair threatened to suffocate him.

Recently he had been spending and increasing amount of time reclining by the water's edge to cool his troubled mind, which always seemed to return to its source of turmoil: the girl who now stood before him.

Christine finally turned, and the look in her eyes made his heart climb to his throat. Her wide eyes glittered with unshed tears as she smiled with pure joy. The fire that had been suppressed by narrow hallways and closed doors for months had rekindled, and a tinkling laugh passed her lips.

Throwing her arms out, Christine spun around in a circle, leaning her head back and letting the moonlight bathe her face. Her chocolate curls bounced and Erik's dark cloak swirled around her form, wrapping around her slender body as she stopped.

Erik's eyes hungrily watched her every movement, his head giddy with satisfaction.

She was happy, and it was because of him.

One side of him, likely the rational side, insisted that danger resided in his eagerness to please the indecisive girl, but he pointedly ignored that. For now he was simply pleased to have been the catalyst of the raw joy in his angel.

Stepping forward tentatively, Erik tilted his head curiously, the moonlight making his white mask glow.

"Are you pleased, my dear?" He asked. He knew she was, but he longed to hear the words spoken from her perfect lips.

"Erik," she whispered breathily, making his blood burn in his veins, "It's gorgeous…"

Her words drew him closer, but he hesitated just out of arm's reach of Christine. His fingers itched, desiring to take her in his arms, to hold her…but he would not allow it.

_She is not happy because of you_, his mind insisted, _she only rejoices in her freedom: in the prospect of being rid of you._

But Christine closed the distance between them, taking his cold hands in her delicate fingers and smiling prettily up at him. Her smile threatened to unhinge him; it took all the self-control he could muster to maintain his neutral expression while his body ached with restraint. His hands shook within hers, and she glanced down at them with wide eyes.

"Oh, you're cold! Here," she released his hands to fumble with the clasp of the cloak she had been given. "You shouldn't have given-"

A finger upon her lips silenced Christine. Brushing her hands aside from the clasp, Erik fastened it once more about her narrow shoulders. He swept her curls over her shoulder and allowed his anxious fingers to tenderly stroke her neck as he drew them back.

"You need this more than I do. It is not the first time I have been cold." His breath curled from his lips in a visible puff of swirling mist, hailing the arrival of true night when the earth gives up its last warmth to the cooler air of darkness.

The burning intensity of his golden eyes caught Christine's attention, and she tilted her head slightly and parted her lips as if to ask a question.

Realizing the focus of her mounting inquiry, Erik quickly cleared his throat as he retreated slightly and asked, "So you like it?"

He gestured around her with a wide, theatrical sweep of his hand. Her mind drawn back to the beautiful scene around her, Christine beamed at him once more.

"Oh, _yes_…It's open, clear, crisp…I can _breathe_," as if to prove it, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, her chest rising and threatening to draw Erik's eyes.

_She mustn't breathe like that. Or smile so. _But he thrived off of her happiness, off of her smiles and glances, no matter how much self-restraint it required to keep himself in line.

Unfortunately, that self-restraint was wearing thin.

Entirely intoxicated on her joyful passion – which only served to increase his own darker feelings – Erik's amber eyes flashed as he once more drew near to Christine. He did not stop until he cupped her face in his gentle hands. Her eyes opened in surprise, and a blush rose on her cheeks as he tilted his head, his lips mere centimeters from hers. Christine's lips parted of their own accord as she felt his heated breath upon them, and she trembled beneath his hands as she let her eyes slip closed again.

She was entirely sure that he would kiss her, and she wasn't entirely sure that she would mind.

He moved slightly, and her lips followed his unconsciously. Intrigued by this, Erik continued, moving so Christine leaned her head back and tilted it slightly, exposing the creamy skin of her neck to the moonlight.

His fingers trailed along her neck; he could feel her pounding pulse in her veins. His echoed hers, but she could never be allowed to know that.

Erik was in control; he was the master, and everyone else would dance to his music accordingly. He would not be overcome by emotions. It would only ruin his delicately orchestrated plans.

_She will be yours. But wait; she will still be here when the time is right, and when it is, she will be the one begging, not you._

But if he could not sate one of his desires, he would indulge another fancy.

Drawing his hand back up to the curve of Christine's jaw, his lips brushed against hers like feathers as he whispered huskily, "_Sing for me, my angel_."

Christine's lips began to tremble.

"I…I can't," she insisted quietly, her voice shaking with emotion. His nearness had sparked a flame within her, and it heated her whole body. The warm weight of the cloak threatened to make her perspire.

"Nonsense," Erik purred into her mouth, the maddening heat of his breath washing over her lips. "Surely you have not forgotten how?"

"I can't sing for you," she whispered, casting her eyes and face downward, breaking the spell Erik held over her.

His eyebrows knit together, but he swiftly called forth a façade of indifference. Inwardly frustrated with her lack of acquiescence and feeling as if a great weight had settled in the pit of his stomach, Erik chucked her under the chin with cold firmness.

_She will at least have the decency to look at me when she stabs me in the heart._

His heart already ached with the implied accusation. He was her captor, and no songbird would sing willingly for the one who cast her into her cage. He was not her Angel of Music, no longer her tutor, and had no right to command her voice.

Tearful eyes melted the wall of ice that he had constructed to conceal his wounded heart. Her chocolate pools shimmered through the film of crystalline tears as she reluctantly met his hard glare.

"I…I have not been practicing. I cannot sing for you," the embarrassment in her voice was evident, and she blushed before looking at her slippers once more.

_She generally wishes to please me…_

Relief flooded Erik as his muscles relaxed from their knotted tension. His lungs remembered they had a job to perform, and he took a deep and calming breath.

Only the babble of the stream and the chirp of crickets filled the air between the two people bathed in starlight.

Glancing up once more with her pleading doe eyes, Christine whispered hesitantly into the night.

"Will you sing for me, Angel?"

_She holds my shattered heart in her hand. Will I ever find it within myself to deny her?_

"…Of course."

He began to sing softly at first, the rich and exotic words of a dark, tragic ballad lost upon the ears of Christine, who knew not what he sung of. She felt the emotion of the words, however, and timidly touched Erik's chest, longing to be held as tears of awe filled her eyes at the passion in his voice. His strong arms encircled her obligingly, and she leaned her ear against his chest, the song reverberating in her very core.

Although she had in no way been released, she was finally at peace. The calm spread through her, tingling pleasantly, and she relished it.

This was what she longed for.

The sound of Erik's music in the night swelled and rose, sweeping the heartfelt cry of a fallen angel to the heavens.

Christine's soul soared with it.

* * *

_My sincerest apologies...this was a quick update, so I'm not exactly pleased with it, but I know if I let it sit for weeks then it will undoubtedly only get worse. I stayed up rather late writing this as well, due to the fact that my brother demands his laptop back and I will be without internet access for an indeterminate amount of time. My deadline for a last update was (looks at clock) today. When I finally get my home computer fixed I'll be able to devote the amount of time to this story that it deserves. Until then I will be reading my assigned reading and writing essays. Woohoo._

Please be understanding, and when I come back I'll be certain to give you a better chapter than this one (sighs).


	17. The Battle to Come

**Thank you, all of you, for being infinitely patient with me. I've come to learn that trouble is like dominoes: it just leads to more trouble till everything comes crashing down. I've just now managed to begin to drag myself out of the wreckage – and it's nowhere near over – so this is just a chapter to set things up and get the ball rolling again, so to speak. I read and appreciated all the reviews I received on the last chapter, but I regret that I can't respond to all of them this time because of everything that's on my plate at the moment. Just know that each and every one was greatly appreciated; they're the only thing that made me pick this story up again despite everything.

* * *

**

**Chapter Seventeen: The Battle to Come**

Meg sat numbly staring at the swarthy man before her. The words he had spoken echoed in her ears still.

_Her love? Christine's love? But how? _She could not even think in coherent sentences, and her lips worked to form words although no sound escaped them. The Persian calmly observed this in an almost puzzled manner, as if he had not said anything out of the ordinary in suggesting that the common method of courtship was kidnapping. His jade eyes rested on her, waiting for her eventual response to his statement. After a moment of simply standing in the crisp night air with his hands comfortably resting in his pockets, the man cleared his throat softly.

"Perhaps we should go inside? We will likely need to talk more, and quickly, and talk of dark subjects is best done in well-lit rooms." His statement was a suggestion, and a completely calm and offhand one. By the way he carried himself one would have thought he simply wanted to make small talk over tea, but his words betrayed the urgency that his voice did not.

His words brought Meg to her senses as she ceased her vain attempt to discern the meaning of his farfetched theory. _Either the man is very clever, or very insane, _Meg decided. The collected serenity on his fine-featured face gave no answer as to the inner workings of his mind as his green eyes remained locked on her blue eyes.

Meg realized she should perhaps speak, but as her nerves were frayed and her confused emotions were jumbling any attempt at words, she merely mumbled something noncommittal and turned her back on him to walk back into the Opera.

Meg had not asked him to follow her, but when she turned to close the door on the shadows of the night, he was standing in the doorway, making Meg jump a little. She had not heard his approach, and his crystal eyes unnerved her greatly. Meg grumbled something angrily under her breath, and the Persian caught the words "insane" and "pig-headed man". Meg thought she caught the ghost of a smile curling his lips before she turned once more and stalked down the hall, leaving the dark man to close the door and trail after her.

The soft whisper of Meg's slippers on the floor seemed cacophonous in the empty hallway. The Persian made no sound at all, but she did not have to look over her shoulder to know he followed her closely. She could sense him, and it made her anxious. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled although she could not rationalize such a response. _I'll simply hear him out and then send him on his merry way with his preposterous ideas in tow._

Despite her growing and unexplainable dislike for the icy man behind her, Meg could not ignore the hope that had begun to bubble within her. The mere thought of once more laughing and chatting with her childhood friend, to once more see Christine's dazzling and mischievous smile threatened to bring tears of joy to her eyes. If this man was right, if the Opera Ghost had in fact concocted an elaborate scheme to secure Christine as his own once and for all, then he could be stopped. He was simply a man, after all.

Meg wandered down the winding hallways behind the stage of the Opera. Lamps along the walls warmly illuminated everything with a cheery glow; the halls were never dark, especially since the strange happenings associated with the Phantom of the Opera. A young stagehand sat in a rickety wooden chair at the crossing of two corridors, and he tipped his threadbare hat and nodded in greeting to Meg as she passed. The boy's eyes lingered on the Persian, and when he recognized who the dark-skinned man was he did the sign against evil hastily. The Persian pointedly ignored it.

Deciding that she would not be comfortable at all showing such a notoriously dangerous man where she slept – although he likely knew the entire layout of the Opera due to his years of wandering it – Meg opened the door to a private sitting room outfitted with a few comfortable chairs of mismatched fabric and a slightly frayed settee. The room was comfortable enough for the hearing of the long explanation that she would demand and close enough in proximity to the dormitories. If she screamed, she would be heard.

_I'm not going to be killed_, she thought firmly. _He's come here to tell me something, not place a curse upon me_. It helped to steady her shaking hands slightly as she lit numerous lamps around the room.

Without being asked, the Persian reclined his lean frame comfortably in a high-backed chair and rested his elbows on the arms of it; he peered over the steeple formed by his long fingers with his piercing jade gaze. Folding her arms aggressively under her breasts, Meg narrowed her blue eyes and glared back at the man before her.

"What's going on?" she questioned icily, as if beginning an interrogation.

The Persian blinked innocently up at her. Gesturing to a chair opposite hers, he asked evenly, "Would you like to have a seat? The chairs in here are quite comfortable."

His evasiveness irked the young blonde woman to no end. Stomping her foot in frustration, she threw up her hands and yelled, "This isn't your Opera house, so stop acting like the lord of a manor! Drop the act and tell me what you need to tell me, otherwise just leave me alone!"

A long moment of silence passed between the two as the man resumed his meditative pose and Meg stood, face reddened with emotion and chest heaving with her accelerated breathing.

_This is getting me nowhere. _

Calmly Meg took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and gracefully took her seat in the plush chair opposite the infuriating man. Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts, Meg crossed her ankles daintily and rested her hands on her lap. She could play his game.

"What is it that you wanted to tell me, monsieur?" she asked curiously, keeping her voice even and her itching hands still. It took great effort when one half of her yearned for him to convince her of Christine's safety and the other wanted nothing more than to strangle the man.

"Let us dispose of the pleasantries. I am called Nadir Khan. You may call me Nadir. And I believe your name is Meg Giry," his confidence in the statement suggested he did not have any doubt of it.

"Yes, Monsieur Khan, I am Meg Giry. Christine Daae's friend," she offered in explanation, hoping to swiftly bring the unusual man back to the subject she was so curious about. He ignored her reluctance to use his first name.

"Ah, yes, Mademoiselle Daae. I expected no less; that is why I came to you. The police are incompetent, anyway, and would not believe the truth if it danced before them."

The contempt in his voice was evident and he drew his eyebrows down slightly as he frowned.

Meg had no idea what to say to a comment such as that. She was still trying to adjust to Nadir's rhythm of random speech and unexplainable silences. _Perhaps he is rather unhinged. _Whether mad or not, she decided it would be in her best interest to sit quietly and allow him to tell his story in his own time. No amount of yelling or intimidation worked, anyway; it was about as effective to try to coerce a rock to speak.

"…But I digress," Nadir said after a few minutes of silent contemplation, "I suppose it would be best to come straight to the point. Erik would not kill Christine. Ever."

The finality in his deep, accented voice hung in the air.

"And how, might I ask, would you know that?" Meg could not keep the bite out of her words, although it was half-hearted.

Meg's eyes widened with surprise as Nadir winced visibly. Sliding forward in his chair, he propped his elbows on his knees and hung his head, staring at the faded rug on the floor between his boots as if deciding whether to respond. Finally he sighed wearily, rubbed his neatly trimmed goatee and leaned back in his chair once more.

"Erik is my life. It is my business to know him and his ways." He did not sound pleased, but there was no hint of anger in his tone.

"…What do you mean?" Meg was weary of asking the question, but she believed it would not be the last time she would ask it this night. She was already skeptical of the Persian, and his vague words and farfetched claims made it no easier to form an opinion of him.

Eyeing Meg openly for the first time, from the stubborn set of her jaw to the gleam in her crystalline blue eyes, Nadir sighed.

"I see you do not believe me. But I, of any man on this earth beside himself, know Erik. We…have a certain history in Persia. Due to a sequence of regrettable circumstances and failings on my part, I have been fated to follow him till the end of either his life or mine. It is a long and exhausting story, and I trust you will not hold it against me if I do not elaborate upon it at the moment. There are more pressing matters at hand, like the fact that Erik would not – in fact could not – harm Christine Daae. He would sooner take his own life, and he is to full of pride to do himself that favor."

Meg blushed slightly as she realized she hung upon his every intriguing word. The lure of the exotic, of lands unexplored and ways unknown pulled at Meg, and her fear of the man with the Evil Eye was momentarily forgotten as he spoke. An odd sense of awe replaced it.

_What manner of being can know the life and ways of a ghost? _

Noticing her blush and thinking it to be faintness at the mention of death, Nadir managed a half-bow from his seated position.

"My apologies, Meg Giry. I speak of things too harsh for you, perhaps, but our business here and now revolves around death," the corners of his mouth turned down minutely as he worriedly watched the young woman before him as if she might faint.

_He thinks me weak_, Meg thought. Her pride wounded slightly, she spoke up, "Oh, no, Monsieur Khan…there is no faintness in my heart with regards to death. All that was forgotten when Christine…" she trailed off awkwardly. _Is Christine really dead? I don't know what to think anymore._

Nodding in understanding, Nadir remarked, "You are brave, Meg Giry. That strength will be called upon in the days to follow."

"Call me Meg," she said automatically as she quizzically raised an eyebrow. "The days to come? What is going to happen?"

"Fate willing, we will lay our trap for the monster that has captured Mademoiselle Daae."

Meg's heart skipped a beat as she allowed a small smile to grace her lips. A light shone in her eyes as she scooted to the edge of her chair in excitement.

"So it is possible to save her? Where is he hiding her?" She spoke quickly, the words threatening to tangle on her tongue.

Nadir's raised hand stemmed the flow of more questions.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We do not yet know where Erik has run to for sanctuary."

"Perhaps he is still here in the Opera. There has to be secret passageways that the police haven't found. He could be hiding down there and we would never know it!" The thought that Christine's kidnapper could be so close made Meg anxious; she rose to her feet as if to begin the search at that moment.

"He's not in the Opera house."

Stopped in her tracks, Meg stared down at Nadir as he calmly consulted his pocket watch.

"…He's not?" Meg did not question that he would know such a thing. The way she saw it, she could either accept that this man was correct in his assumption and search for her lost friend, or give in to despair and never bother herself to find her friend who could still be alive. She was coming to believe that anything was possible.

Shaking his head firmly, Nadir explained, "Although this Opera is his creation and he will forever be tied to it, Erik will not remain in a place that holds such terrible memories for him. I saw the wreckage of his home," Nadir's tone took on a harder edge as he spat the words. He continued in a more controlled voice. "Erik has spent his entire life running from his pain, or trying to. To live in a place that daily reminded him of his suffering would be against his nature. I won't deny that he frequents this place, as you can tell from the abduction of Christine Daae."

"Wait," Meg said suddenly, "You said he has spent his life running from his pain. If this is true, then why would he seek out Christine? She spurned him once; she chose Raoul de Chagny over him. He had to have felt some pain from that. Why would he want to have someone who had caused him such pain?"

Rubbing his eyes wearily, Nadir shook his head once more. "I said he runs from his pain, yes. It is his fate. But I also told you that he is tied to his creations. Of anything that he has ever made, Christine is his masterpiece. His ties to her would overcome any pain she could cause him."

"But he didn't _make_ Christine," Meg laughed lightly at the preposterous idea. "He most certainly is not her father."

"He made her the unrivaled singer she is today. Erik took a small girl and slowly, patiently gave her the voice of an angel. He placed too much of himself in her to let her choose another man."

Digesting this, Meg sat down once more in exasperation. Christine was alive. That was good. But a madman had her in his grasp, and they had not the faintest idea where he was hiding her.

"So…what now?" Her acceptance of his leadership seemed to stiffen Nadir's resolve.

His confidence was evident as he stated, "We lure him out of his lair."

The animalistic gleam in his jade eyes would have frightened Meg if she had been his intended prey. As odd as it sounded, she thanked God that she was not the Phantom of the Opera. Instead she merely nodded her head in consent.

"I suppose you have a plan for that." It was not a question. Meg had the feeling that this entire meeting had been planned and thought over long before it took place.

For the first time Nadir grinned, flashing dazzling white teeth contrasted by his coffee skin. It was a cold grin, however. "Of course, Meg Giry…and I take it you are willing to devote yourself to the cause of saving your friend no matter the danger?"

Meg nodded firmly, and that singular motion held conviction in it, even thought she felt she might be signing her life away. Her heart pounded nervously, but she schooled her features as she responded, "Naturally, Monsieur Khan."

"Good, then we shall discuss the details," rising from his seat and stretching his lithe frame, Nadir moved toward the door. "I trust you won't mind if I make us some tea."

And the dark-skinned Persian left the room without waiting for a response, once more the picture of deadly confidence and calm.

Meg was left staring at his vacant chair, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

XXXXXXXXX

Raoul had swiftly discovered that silent compliance to the demands of his caretakers was best. His violent outburst had been momentarily satisfying – nothing could have made him happier than to split his knuckles on his pompous brother's face – but it had earned him a long-lasting period of numb sedation. When the haze had first began to rise from his vision and he could begin to form coherent thoughts for more than a few seconds, Raoul had fought to free himself. His aggression was once more met with the cold stab of a needle and an impending darkness as the drug ran through his veins and lulled him into an unnatural sleep.

He had decided that the solution to his present situation could only be found when he could think rationally – when he was not swimming in a drug-induced mist. Raoul had lain quietly as he was poked and prodded; his bruises and scrapes had faded and healed. His "increasing mental stability" was also extremely pleasing to the doctor, who was sure to relay his satisfaction to Philippe.

Or so Raoul guessed. His brother had not been inside his room since becoming acquainted with Raoul's fist – at least not when he was conscious.

Raoul could only entertain the hope that perhaps, with time and good behavior, he would be allowed to see his brother once more. He was not allowed to leave his bedroom, and the only people who entered were nurses, the doctor, and frightened maids. None of them would listen to his pleas for freedom, rational as they may be. Only Philippe held the power to release him, and no matter how unlikely the prospect was, Raoul needed something to focus upon besides his jumbled emotions and thoughts.

The doctor and the nurses kept their silence on most subjects, mainly commenting on his condition as if he were a horse for sale. He had learned nothing from them besides the fact that they sincerely thought him deranged. But through the whispered discussion of maids who spoke while they believed him asleep, he had learned _something_ had happened to Christine. The way Philippe had avoided his question of her safety supported that fact. Raoul's thoughts were consumed with worry; he had never told her of his feelings and regrets for her neglect at his hands, and now something had befallen her. What exactly that was he did not know.

But he _would_ find out.

Vaguely he heard the scraping of a key unlocking his door, and he sighed wearily. The doctor had just been in to check on him, and he had not caused any commotion that would merit another visit. He propped himself up upon the bed's headboard and waited patiently and obediently.

The face that peered through the open doorway made him believe that he might truly be unhinged.

Meg Giry's wide blue eyes scanned the room quickly before she turned and said to someone behind her, "It's clear."

A swarthy man ushered her into the room, turning and locking the door behind them with his key. The two intruders turned to warily gaze at the man on the bed.

Raoul stared at them for a few tense moments.

Then he burst into laughter.

XXXXXXX

Nadir nervously eyed the young blonde woman by his side. She had not mentioned precisely how deranged the vicomte de Chagny happened to be. The startled look in her eyes proved she had no idea of the extent of his state, though.

Once more it seemed to come down to him. Clearing his throat loudly enough to be heard over the mirth of the vicomte, Nadir stepped forward slowly and cautiously. Meg hovered behind him and made as if to place a hand on his shoulder to stay his advance, but thought better of it.

"Good evening, Monsieur," Nadir said diplomatically. He spoke clearly and deliberately, and the vicomte seemed to listen, although he still chuckled softly.

"I believe you already know Mademoiselle Giry…and I am Nadir Khan, a friend." He decided it would be best to make that part clear from the beginning.

"Of c-course. Meg Giry and Nadir Khan, who else w-would I be expecting?" His speech was stuttered with barely checked laughter.

He was clearly quite out of his mind.

"Er…yes," Nadir was slightly thrown by the young man's odd actions, and for once his keen mind could not find something to say in response to such a comment.

"Well, Nadir Khan," Raoul began with a twisted grin, "You are my friend, are you? Come to let me go, I suppose?" He chuckled hollowly.

"Actually, Raoul, that is what we intend to do. Can you walk?" Meg took a tentative step forward.

Turning his bloodshot eyes to focus on her, a flash of sorrow flittered across his features before he shook his head.

"I can walk, but I'm not going anywhere."

"Why not? We have the key…" Meg gestured to Nadir, who still held the key in his hand.

"I would be more than happy to follow you if not for the fact that you two are not real," Raoul stated, his voice cracking as a lump formed in his throat.

It felt as if a pile of lead had settled in the pit of Nadir's stomach.

"But we ARE real, Raoul! You're not imagining this; we're here, standing before you, and we're going to get you out of here," Meg said, her eyes pleading him to believe her words.

"No….no no no," Raoul shook his head firmly.

"Nadir! Make him see…he doesn't understand…" she turned and walked toward the man, placing a delicate hand on the sleeve of his frock coat, begging him. The muscles of his forearm tensed at the contact.

Nadir did not move, though. He stood completely still, his mind racing as his jade eyes looked at the broken man on the bed, calculatingly observing his every movement.

"Nadir!" Meg almost sobbed, her fear that their plans would never come to fruition evident.

A muscle in his jaw twitched briefly, then Nadir sighed almost inaudibly. Without taking his eyes from the young man, Nadir finally said, "I do not know if we can make him believe what he does not wish to. Perhaps it is fate that we should do this without his aid."

"But we have to try!" Meg wailed, wringing her hands in frustration, "There has to be SOME way for you to convince him that we are real!"

Nadir's mind buzzed; he needed time to think this over; he was meticulous and thorough in all his decisions, and despised having to make crucial choices under pressure.

Raoul's laughter resumed full-force, booming and reverberating off the walls of the room…but it was accompanied by tears that glittered in the lamplight as they streamed down his pale cheeks.

It did nothing for Nadir's racing mind.

Wincing and covering her ears with her hands to fend off some of the ringing laughter, Meg yelled over the din, "NADIR, DO SOMETHING!"

With two quick strides, Nadir was at the bedside.

He backhanded Raoul swiftly. The slap rang in the hush that ensued.

Raoul simply looked up at the dark man above him. His mouth was slightly ajar with shock, but blessedly silent.

Meg broke the quiet. She cursed in a very unladylike manner.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" Her eyes looked like sapphire saucers. _Apparently that was not what she had in mind_, Nadir noted calmly.

Ignoring the dazed young woman, Nadir caught Raoul's glazed blue eyes. His own emerald green eyes flashed, and Raoul shuddered involuntarily as he recalled a certain pair of amber eyes.

"The pain you feel could not be caused by a hallucination. We are very real, I assure you monsieur. If you require further evidence, I will be happy to oblige."

The composed tone of his voice was at odds with the violent strike of seconds before; he seemed detached from all his actions, always calm and serene.

Tears suddenly began to stream from Raoul's eyes as he hung his head and wept silently. Vaguely Nadir wondered if he had hurt the man; he did not believe he had struck him that forcefully.

The source of those tears was soon evident as Raoul whispered, "Thank G-God…thank you…God…"

Meg was sitting on the edge of his bed in no time, stroking his ruffled hair soothingly and murmuring comforting words.

Relief flooded Nadir, and he welcomed it like rain after a drought. Fate had smiled upon him…for now.

"Dress yourself and pack. We only have minutes before the servants realize that the cause of your elder brother's fainting spell can be found in his tea. They will not be pleased."

His even voice belied the hairs that stood up on the back of his neck.

Allah willing, they would survive this night and the battle to come.

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**I'll upload again when I can find the time; at the moment I'm simply doing all I can to keep this story going. My apologies once again for keeping everyone waiting...**


	18. Denied Passion

**For all those wondering, no, I have not forgotten about my story. To tell you the truth, I have a buttload (yes, lovely word) of AP classes at the moment, I've started a job, my grandparents are sick, and my mom and dad are in the middle of a divorce. I'm not saying this for pity or anything – in fact that's the last thing I want. I just want everyone to understand that it's not that I've lost my desire to write or my devotion to my readers. It's just that it's difficult to find time to write with all that going on…and somewhere along the way I lost my muse. This chapter is just something quick to get up there and let you know I'm not dead (although I might feel like being so lol). I'm back into reading, listening to, and watching POTO, so rest assured: this will go on. Just as a heads up, this chapter is mainly just setting things up with Erik and Christine, and more action (don't be dirty) will appear in the following chapters now that I have my evil plotline moving in my head once more…

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**Chapter Eighteen: Denied Passion**

The last notes of a haunting song dissolved in the thickening chill of the night, ringing softly into nothingness. They seemed to hang heavy on the air still, and their weight tugged resolutely at the drooping eyelids of the young woman near the water. She dragged the lazy fingers of her right hand through the whispering water of the stream she sat by, reposed in sleepy satisfaction. The flowing skirts of her gown pooled around her, along with the heavy black cloak that seemed to engulf her, pulling at her body as the music pulled her consciousness into a dreamlike state of half-sleep.

The nod of her head as she fought the valiant yet futile battle against sleep did not go unnoticed by the burning amber eyes that watched her every movement from the edge of the forest.

Erik had remained there, leaning casually against the trunk of an ancient tree, swallowed by the shadows but for his glinting eyes. He could not recall how long he had simply stood there, singing song after song for the young woman before him until his throat grew sore. He paid that no heed, however. He would sing until his voice left him forever if it meant one moment more basking in the reflected glory of the vision of a woman in the clearing.

Christine's happiness was evident; she glowed, and not simply from the moonlight that bathed her in its light. A genuine, if sleepy, smile graced her rosebud lips, made ever redder by the biting cold that had settled on the earth.

_The biting cold…_

Erik was more than used to frigid temperatures; residing in the drafty and dank underbelly of the Opera did not exactly make for a cozy living arrangement. The air that seeped through his evening suit and to his very bones did not faze him, but until now he had not thought much about the effects of it upon his single audience member.

Instead of striking up another song, Erik waited and watched as Christine's pale face nodded once more onto her chest before she jerked herself awake and rubbed wearily at her eye with her free hand.

"It's time to leave."

His sudden statement startled Christine, who jumped, causing her to plunge her hand into the stream as she fought to steady herself. Shaking her dripping hand and shivering a bit, Christine turned to look at Erik's silhouette calmly, as if to deny the fact that she had been startled only moments before.

Her features, softened by relaxation and content, stirred something within his cold body, but he did not speak, waiting as she stifled a yawn discretely. She batted her long eyelashes and gazed up at him from her seated position.

"One more song? Please? It's not that late yet," she pleaded prettily, although the look in her eyes suggested she knew the truth of how long they had stayed in the clearing more so than Erik. Mentally Erik cursed himself for the way his heart leaped at her tone, and he hid his embarrassment by shifting his position and crossing his arms. Perhaps then the way he fidgeted under her gaze would go unseen.

_Manipulative girl_, he grumbled mentally. _Thinks she can make me dance to her tune with pretty words and dazzling eyes? She is QUITE mistaken._

Clearing his throat pointedly, Erik forced himself to break her gaze, searching the treetops. The pinkish tinge that hinted at approaching sunrise made the leaves blush faintly. They had been there for a long time, indeed. Time held little meaning for him; he did not view his own sleep as a high priority, but he found that it mattered very much to him if Christine would miss hers.

Catching her eyes once more, his heart rebelled as he said roughly, attempting to hide his concern, "Christine…it's almost sunrise. You're exhausted," he added as she clenched her jaw to restrain another yawn.

"I am - _not_," she insisted, breaking her protest as the yawn escaped despite her best efforts. "Please…just one more song?" The tilt of her head threatened to unnerve him.

Dimly he realized how effectively she was playing him, and it made his hackles rise slightly, but to deny her request felt like sacrilege. _Does she know how she affects me? To allow her to know would be the end of all this that I've so carefully crafted…_

Momentarily Erik was caught in an inner struggle between his reason and his passion. To remain with Christine for even just a few minutes longer would be as close to heaven as he would ever reach, but to give in so easily to a stubborn girl would be a terrible blow to his pride – and that was just simply unthinkable. The shiver that passed through Christine's slim frame made up his mind.

_If she catches a cold, I'll never forgive myself for dragging her out here._ Restrained laughter tightened his chest as he realized the truth of that ridiculous thought. _What the hell is happening to me? _

Yet he couldn't find the will or energy to be properly disgusted with himself when her questioning brown eyes searched his for his answer.

"You're balancing on the edge of slumber and you ask for another song? I am _not_ carrying you back when you fall asleep," he informed her bluntly, although his words were merely the hollow imitation of actual annoyance.

Christine's delicate brows furrowed as she frowned indignantly. "I will NOT fall asleep. Just one more song…I promise, I won't complain when you take me home after that."

The world seemed to cease its turning for a moment, and Erik could feel it lurch to a stop. Time stood still for a few missed breaths, and his heart pounded double time to make up for it when he finally breathed again.

_Home. She called it home. _Dark thrills raced through Erik's body, causing him to shiver unconsciously. He felt strangely numb, but pleasantly so. He silently slid down to a sitting position, leaning his back against the tree behind him. He was thankful to the shadows of the night for the fact that Christine could not see his reaction. Taking a silent, but deep and calming breath, Erik let it pass his parted lips with a sigh. A smile of ecstasy curled his lips; it may have been a slip of the tongue, but she had momentarily accepted him through that single word.

The rational side of him pointed out that if he indulged such begging on account of a single word he would spoil his angel _and_ expose his weakness for her, but his pleasure at even that indirect acceptance overwhelmed any other notion than to sing once more.

He chuckled huskily and then nodded his consent, even though he knew she could not likely see it. Closing his eyes contentedly, he began singing a soft melody, pouring his soul into the words and ignoring the lingering soreness of his abused throat. After a comment like that, he could sing for an eternity.

For a few minutes there was nothing but awareness of every tingling inch of his body. It seemed to reverberate with the power of his song and the sensation of Christine nearby. The trees whispered, and the smell of damp grass and bark richly filled his nostrils. For once, Erik was relaxed and unafraid. He had nothing to fear in the secluded clearing in the sacred air of the forest; no one was present to cry in horror at the sight of his face or whisper behind their hands about his mask…no one but Christine. And ever so slowly his confidence that she would perhaps stay with him grew in a crescendo like the notes of his song. For that moment, Erik was content.

The moment could not last forever, and when the song reached its end and Erik's golden eyes opened once more, he beheld the sleeping form of Christine curled upon the lush grass. She had edged closer to him, drawn by the power in his heartfelt song, and had finally succumbed to sleep near the toes of his leather boots.

Temporarily he forgot how to breathe, afraid that any movement would either wake her or himself. _This must be a dream._

But it was real.

Her warm breath curled in transparent wisps from her parted lips, and Erik found himself unconsciously reaching forward to run his fingers through it as if he could capture her essence by doing so. He watched in awe as the mist evaded his grasp and dispersed into the darkness.

A feeling of unexplainable yet familiar sorrow settled in the pit of his stomach as his searching fingers were wrapped once more with the chill of the night.

No such wisps of warmth escaped his lips. The night had long since accepted him as one of her own, cloaking him in her frigid mantle. But Christine was not a creature of the dark, and the evening seemed to enviously suck the warmth from her lungs, drawing it forth in shimmering clouds, trying to reduce the beauty of a child of the daylight to night's own dull glory.

Perhaps Christine needed a walk in the light once more.

Pondering this possibility, Erik forced himself to rise to his feet and gazed down at Christine's sleeping form.

_If I must allow her to wander amongst the living to save her spirit, then so be it. I will find a way._

Silently he bent and gently lifted Christine, careful not to wake her with any sudden movements. A content sigh escaped her lips as she clutched the front of his shirt in her small hand, smiling softly in her sleep. Erik found himself sighing along with her. It was a wonder his pounding heart didn't wake her. It thundered in his ears.

Cradling Christine to his chest, Erik carried her to where Caesar stood grazing on a patch of particularly lush grass.

The white stallion fixed Erik with a large eye, whickering quietly and tossing his mane.

"Shhh," Erik soothed, whispering quietly to the horse as he gently laid Christine upon Caesar's back. Her eyelids fluttered open briefly, but more soothing words from Erik made them droop closed again as she draped herself along the horse's neck, resting her cheek on his mane.

Taking the reins in his hand, Erik stepped backward for a few steps, coaxing Caesar into a slow walk. His sharp eye watched for any sign of distress from the sleeping woman. None came, and for a moment Erik marveled at Christine's ability to sleep through such jostling. She was apparently quite exhausted. He cursed himself a thousand times over for allowing himself to keep her out for so long as he watched Christine. Her chest rose and fell as she sighed in her sleep, stray curls framing her face and swaying slightly as she exhaled.

The mere thought of sleep called forth a yawn from Erik's jaws, making his eyes water. _Curse her_, he thought, _I'm likely to fall asleep standing here if I keep watching her…_

Clucking his tongue to urge Caesar forward once more, Erik set off toward the cemetery. The darkness seemed complete, but being entirely used to such gloom, Erik was quite comfortable with his limited visibility. Besides, the stars were still casting a dim light upon the earth, and the rising sun would soon timidly peek over the horizon. Every few steps he looked over his shoulder nervously to check upon the sleeping Christine, who managed to hold her precarious position with apparent ease.

After what must have been the twentieth time glancing backwards, Erik stumbled upon a stone and staggered a few steps, sporadic curses breaking the sacred silence of the night. Caesar protested the violent jerking of his reins by tossing his head and fixing Erik with a reproachful stare. Erik blushed beneath his mask; it was a miracle Christine did not stir.

"Sorry," he muttered to Caesar. _Damned fool! Watch the road, not the girl, _he chastised, growling deeply in his chest and feeling the heat in his cheeks.

Then he realized he had lately apologized to a horse, and grew more unsettled.

Deciding that his lack of caution must be a combination of the late hour and his lack of sleep – neither of which had ever bothered him before – Erik spent the rest of the journey with his eyes locked on the earth, never deviating from the path he walked.

It seemed eons before he reached the crooked, twisted fence of the cemetery. The reddish glow of the rising sun cast its bloodlike rays over the graves. It welcomed him with open arms, the iron bars of the fence curling, eager to embrace him once more. He stopped at the entrance, pushing aside the rickety gate, which creaked loudly and caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He meant to lead Caesar into the graveyard, but instead his footsteps ceased on its threshold. The shiny black toes of his leather boots were mere inches from the caked dust and dirt of the burial ground; he was loathe to leave the lush cushion of grass beneath his feet. Never before had he noticed just how greatly the landscape before him mirrored its purpose. It seemed no life had ever resided there, aside from the prolific weeds, whose ugly and twisted foliage merely seemed to mock the beauty of the living.

A dull ache settled in his chest as he recalled the green field and the glowing Christine…how she had smiled, how she had curled up against him as he sang, the set of her full lips as she pouted, demanding another song…She was brimming with life. It shone through her eyes, as if they were a mirror of her joyous soul.

_Christine…_

The realization that Christine – a living, breathing soul – was in fact still with him was the only thing that made Erik return once more to the land of the dead.

Erik led Caesar to his makeshift stall behind the decaying church. Erik supposed the room had once been used as a confessionary, but in his opinion, it served this purpose much better. Relieving Caesar of his light burden, Erik's golden eyes roamed the furnishings of the room. A dilapidated sort of table seemed steady enough, and so he hastily brushed it off – or as well as he could with Christine in his arms – and placed her gently upon it.

Her eyelids fluttered open and Erik's heart leaped into his throat as she stirred in his arms.

"Erik?" she mumbled, her eyes not entirely focused on his.

"Shh, Christine…it's alright. Just sleep…" unsure of what to do, but desperate to lull her back into slumber before she panicked in her unknown environment, Erik hesitantly ran his gloved fingers along her jaw and smoothed her curls with his other hand.

Christine leaned her face into his cupped hand, drawing her own small hand over his. Her eyes swiftly drifted shut and she resumed the deep breaths of sleep.

Something happened to be breathing on Erik's neck, and he casually pushed Caesar's inquiring white nose off his shoulder without tearing his eyes from the serene face of the sleeping young woman before him. Caesar protested with a snort, and Erik finally gave in and tended to the horse.

When Caesar was properly settled and fed, Erik eagerly took Christine in his arms once more. She draped her arms around his neck, and their warmth pleasantly tingled on his cold skin…Erik tried desperately not to think of her heated skin again as he concentrated on getting her to her room.

It was mere yards to the entrance to his home, and he nudged the secret release with his elbow. The tomb slid aside, leaving a gaping maw in the earth. Sparing a last glance over his shoulder at the breaking of the morning upon the earth, Erik glided silently down the staircase and into his lair. He navigated the pitch black passageways by instinct and memory, making his way to Christine's room.

Erik laid Christine upon her cream colored bedspread, removing his arms from under her and deftly lighting a shaded gas lamp on her bedside table. In a very businesslike manner, Erik removed her slippers and his oversized cloak she had draped over her. He knew she could not likely sleep well with such attire as she had left, but Erik could not bring his shaking hands to remove anything else. He made the mistake of bringing his eyes back to the woman before him and his breath caught in his chest.

She was magnificent. Her curls splayed across the plump pillow beneath her cheek, the rosy blush upon her face, and the dress that hinted at the curves of her body made him feel humbled, like a mere mortal before the divine. The warm light of the lamp cast an amber glow over her features, enhancing the image of an angel reposed in sleep upon sun-kissed clouds. The muscles of his body tensed and refused to move; he did not belong so close to such perfection, and yet he could not tear himself away. In fact, what he wanted more than anything else at that moment was to lie down beside her and join the little angel in her dreams.

_This is wrong, _his mind insisted. _You do not deserve this; it _must_ be wrong. And such thoughts…there is not a God, because if there was you would not be sitting here with suck thoughts in your head. You burn, and yet the fires of heaven do not strike you down!_

Sickened once more by his mind, his own worst enemy, Erik's eyes stung as he turned away from Christine and rested his masked face in his hands. A gut-wrenching feeling of disgust settled over him, and – as he had for all his life – he cursed his fate.

_Such beauty should not be mine to behold…but I, in my accursed ugliness, seem to be doomed to ache for her beauty…_

His gloved fingers ghosted along the white mask that concealed half his face and a crystalline tear trickled from beneath the porcelain and landed upon his lap. He ran his fingers through his slicked back jet hair and half-sobbed a sigh.

No one could ever learn to see the man behind the hideous monster that was Erik, but more importantly, Erik himself could not learn to see the man beneath.

Chilled fingers brushed his arm, and Erik leaped to his feet and spun like a cornered wolf, eyes wide with fear and every muscle of his body tensed and ready for flight.

Christine stared up at him, clearly as shocked by his reaction as he was by her touch. Her hand rested upon her bosom, and she seemed to be attempting to catch her breath.

The silence that hung heavily in the air suffocated Erik, and for a moment he just stood there, his eyes burning with some unknown emotion and his black hair disheveled by his fingers.

Erik came to the conclusion that he should perhaps speak. Vaguely he knew she could tell he had been crying, but he chose to ignore it. The most uncomfortable situations could, most often, be avoided by simply ignoring the fact that they ever happened. Straightening himself to his full height and smoothing a stray lock of hair back and out of his eyes, Erik cleared his throat and assumed the mask of nonchalance.

"Christine. I see you are awake. You're fingers are like ice…let me go make you some hot tea." Any excuse to swiftly make his exit before he either broke down and poured his heart out to this woman or took her in his arms. Either would be disastrous.

He swung his newly repossessed cloak over his arm, turned sharply on his heel, and was halfway out the door before Christine could speak.

"Erik?" she questioned quickly, half rising out of bed in her haste to catch him before he left her alone.

Erik stopped in his tracks, his hand resting on the frame of the door. He did not turn to look at her, instead fixing his gaze on the stone floor before him. It took a moment for him to work enough moisture back into his mouth to respond.

"Yes, Christine?" he managed to question evenly. _RUN, _his mind screamed. _Run and don't look back! If you stop now, if she asks you to stay, there's no telling what will happen…_

"Will you…Will you let me keep your cloak, just for tonight? I'm cold," came her timid reply.

His heart plummeted and he winced as if he had been physically struck. _Am I upset because she didn't beg me to stay, to never leave her? Hah. I'm a damned fool._

"…Of course, Christine," he consented, laying the cloak upon the nearby settee and exiting the room without meeting her eyes. The door closed with a soft click that echoed in his tortured mind.

XXXXXXX

The moment the door closed, a radiant blush spread across Christine's cheeks as she bit her lip.

She had called to Erik, halting his steps…but she had hesitated. Had she almost asked him to stay with her? Upon realizing her hasty exclamation, Christine had been forced to find a proper (in more ways than one) excuse for keeping Erik from leaving her room. But she wanted him to stay. If she had not been mistaken, she had awoken to a shuddering sob. Erik had been crying, and she did not have the slightest clue as to why. The cold mask of nonchalance that he had assumed upon realizing she was awake did not deceive her; after glimpsing his sorrow, she knew he could not cast it aside so easily…and how she longed to comfort him, whatever the reason for his tears were.

The burning desire she had to soothe his wounds, to know the cause of his sorrow and to do something to change it frankly frightened Christine. Had she grown fond of her captor? The mere thought called forth another blush. That was not the case. She simply recalled how Erik had comforted her and kindly listened to her tearful words when she revealed her turmoil with her fiancé – when she had needed him. She desired to return the favor. Nothing more.

Idly she walked barefoot to the settee and retrieved Erik's cloak. She ran her fingers along the dark red silk lining; the fabric was still warm, and Erik's distinct, crisp scent still lingered upon it. It was strangely comforting, and she settled it once more around her shoulders.

Turning back to her bed with intentions of taking a nap before her tea was ready, something caught Christine's eye, ending her contemplation of her blossoming feelings – or lack thereof – and plunging her into a deep gloom.

The candlelight played in the impressive diamond of Christine's engagement ring. It lay upon the smooth stone floor of her bedroom, and although it was hardly the size of a coin, it seemed to draw Christine's dark eyes even when she attempted to look away in disgust.

Christine moved carefully to her bed and sat cross-legged on the foot of it, pensively biting her lower lip and staring warily at the unmoving ring as if it was a snake.

It was simply amazing how a single circle of metal could evoke such strong and conflicting emotions within her. It recalled painful memories and shattered dreams that, like broken glass, stung and cut her when she attempted to hold them in her hands once more.

The ring represented her future, her purpose in existence. Marriage had been her ultimate goal in life, like every other woman in Paris. Had she not dreamed of finding a charming husband, being happily wed, and having children? Had she not yearned for the love that would be hers with the acceptance of such a ring? And the vicomte was her first love, the boy she had grown attached to over the years. Even in his absence, she had caught herself in daydreams about what life would be if she were the vicomtess, the wife of Raoul de Chagny. The small token of affection that he had later offered to her was the key to a lifetime of comfort and bliss…or so she had thought.

The ring, however, had been tainted. Lies and unfulfilled promises had debased the sacred meaning of the band. She had accepted the Vicomte de Chagny's proposal because it was convenient: she loved him, he loved her, and they knew each other from childhood. Everything had seemed right. But Christine, in her innocence, had been deceived. There would be no walks in the park after mass on Sunday, no nights spent reclining under the stars and engaging in deep and heartfelt conversation, no sharing of their most secret fears and desires as there would be for every other couple in Paris. The daydreams and wishes she had once entertained had been quickly and efficiently shattered by the cold aloofness that Raoul had adopted soon after their hasty escape from the Opera. She had been forced to mature rapidly in a matter of months, casting aside all foolish beliefs in childish ideals. The illusion was shattered: Christine knew she was a trophy, a pretty thing to show off to the aristocrats and then place neatly back on a shelf.

And now Raoul had carelessly abandoned his trophy in his avid search for more interesting and engaging investments such as politics and business. He could not be bothered to rescue her. The thought of it made Christine's eyes burn and tingle unpleasantly with unshed tears.

Christine's hand felt unnaturally light and bare without the dead weight of the ring and she felt oddly hollow. Her belief in Raoul's love had been crushed like her belief in the Angel of Music.

What did she have left to believe in?

Her fingers drew something from her bodice mechanically and ran idly over the metal. The golden band felt hot from her own warmth. Tearing her eyes away from the gaudy engagement ring on the floor, she stared down at the ring in her hand.

It was Erik's engagement ring. She had brought it into the bowels of the Opera with her with intentions of burying it with its rightful owner, and for some reason she had carried it with her ever since. No ornate gems bedecked the simple gold band; in comparison to the ring on the floor, it was hardly worthy of a second glance. And yet she had been unable to keep it from the corner of her mind from the moment that Erik returned her to her bedroom.

Sighing heavily, Christine flopped back upon the plush cream blankets on her bed and stared at the painted ceiling. The billowing clouds and sunburst, as beautiful as they were, did not hold the splendor of the night sky that she had recently stood in awe under. Basking in the glow of the stars and the bluish light of the moon, breathing in the crisp night air, and feeling the grass beneath her feet had been a taste of heaven after months indoors…or underground.

And Erik had been the one to offer her that taste of heaven. _Do not forget that he was the one who imprisoned you away from the sun in the first place_, her mind pointed out. She could not deny that. But the fact that Erik had been thoughtful enough to consider her own desires and her need for the outside world was, in a way, touching. She knew she should not be appreciative of a liberty that should have been hers to begin with, but try as she might, she was. Perhaps it was simply the effects of the moonlight and stars upon her sleep-drugged mind, but she found herself wishing to experience such bliss again with Erik. Angel of Music or not, he was still her teacher, and he was still her comforter…

And she could not ask for anything more. Or could she?

XXXXXX

The kitchen, normally a cold and uninviting shadowed room that was rarely put to use, was aglow with a strong flickering glow. It brought to light the dust upon the cupboards, the cobwebs in the corners of the room, and the odd small spider that scurried madly across the counters searching for the cover of the receding darkness. It clearly needed a woman's touch.

The source of the light was a small fire in the brick fireplace in the corner of the room. Although underground, the smoke from the fire did not fill the room. It was tunneled to the surface through many tunnels, each of which siphoned off some of the smoke and released it to the surface in small and scattered amounts in order to conceal the existence of a fire. The resulting tendrils of smoke exiting the soil amongst the graves merely blended and mingled with the ever-present fog that enveloped the cemetery.

Erik blankly stared at the growing flames of the fire he had started in the small kitchen fireplace. Mechanically he prodded the logs with an iron poker, resting on his haunches lazily. Anyone who would witness his calm exterior would swear he was drifting on the edge of sleep, but that could not be further from the truth. Inside, Erik's emotions were boiling and bubbling under his icy surface, much like the water in the tea kettle over the flames.

Upon discovering that the water was boiling over the sides of the kettle with an angry hiss, Erik snapped from his reverie and used a nearby towel to pull it from over the fire. He splashed a few drops of searing water on his ungloved hand as he set the kettle down, and snarled in an animalistic manner. _Fine time to be daydreaming when you have Christine waiting on her tea._

It wasn't that he was not considering the young woman down the hallway. On the contrary, she happened to be the subject of his inattentiveness, in a manner. The way in which he had fled from her bedroom like a hounded fox made him blush with shame, but at the same time he was unsure that he should have stayed. The predominant side of his mind hinted that it was ridiculous to hide his feelings for Christine any longer; that, after entrusting him with her conflicting feelings for the damned Chagny boy, she had in fact opened up to him in some small manner. Women did not entrust those they hated with their sorrows – or so he imagined, considering he did not have much experience with the subject. Deep in his heart, he knew Christine would listen to his professions of love. Perhaps she would not even wince when he offered his broken and hideous self to her.

But equally strong was the pain of his old wounds, the pain of rejection that he had experienced when last he confessed his feelings for the beautiful young singer. It was a scar that would not fully heal without the love of Christine, but that hindered him from accepting that required love out of fear.

He desperately wanted to take action, but could not bring himself to do so. Erik had never felt more powerless and frustrated in his life, and he did not relish the feeling.

Perhaps he was being a fool. Perhaps Christine would never – _could _never – love him, and working himself into a state of alternating depression and anger over it would never change that fact. Perhaps it would be best to simply be content with having his love nearby, even if he could not have or hold her. Besides, it likely made Christine extremely uncomfortable if she suspected his odd behavior was due to barely restrained emotions. The last thing he desired was to cause Christine unnecessary distress, and if he completely snuffed the flame of his passion before it became a roaring fire, he might be able to spare himself the pain of another rejection.

He opened a cupboard, retrieved one of the delicate teacups that he used regularly, rinsed it out in a stone basin where cool water from the stream could be pumped, and was in the process of bringing it back to the table when it broke in the overly-firm grip of his shaking hands, cut his palm with the glass slivers, and dropped to the floor with a deafening shatter. Erik jumped as if it were a gunshot before slamming his fist forcefully upon the table and making the teapot rattle.

Falling into a chair, he propped his elbows on the table and held his head in his uninjured hand as he thought and watched the blood trickle sluggishly down his open palm. Christine was a burning image in the forefront of his mind; try as he might to concentrate on other things, like the simple task of making tea, he could not cease his mind's dwelling on her. It was ridiculous: proper behavior for a love struck boy, not a calm and unaffected musical genius.

It was almost the death of him when Christine was not near, and now it would likely be the death of him to have her near. He rationalized that it was only a matter of time before he would accidentally stab himself with a cutting knife or impale himself upon a fork with the careless way he seemed to be handling the smallest of tasks.

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, the Angel of Music, would not fall victim to common kitchen utensils.

Purposefully leaping to his feet, Erik's long legs took him to the stone basin in a few strides. He hastily rinsed his bleeding palm off, deemed that the blood flow had stopped sufficiently, and filled a new teacup with steaming tea. The cream and sugar would have to be bypassed; he did not have enough hands to carry it all, and he was quite sure that any tray he carried at the moment would swiftly become acquainted with the floor like the late teacup. Rushing off as fast as he could while keeping the tea from sloshing over the sides of the cup, Erik made his way to Christine's room, lightning flashing in his hard amber eyes.

He would put an end to this childish fancy of love; he would make sure Christine would not reject him again, because he would bury his true feelings and concoct some story explaining his emotional breakdown minutes ago.

Although it would hurt – would almost literally rend his wounded heart to shreds – Erik would spare Christine his foolish professions of love and adoration.

Once more he would hide his burning passion beneath the cold porcelain of his mask.

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**I heard that authors who respond to every review (like I usually do since I love you all so much) are getting their stories taken down. Is this for real? sigh I'm being careful this chapter, but I want everyone to know that I read each and every one of you reviews and I appreciated them all. Thanks for reading, even when it takes me forever and a day to get a chapter up nowadays.**


	19. Watchful Eyes

**Figured I'd get another chapter up here, just to get things moving and all in my plotline. The weekend really is my best friend, but I will pay for this day of writing when I have to work on homework all day tomorrow heheh. Ah well, I'm eager to get this thing rolling along again; and for those of you who would consider this filler (as I kinda do), then consider this needed filler. It sets the stage for the happenings of later times…

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**Chapter Nineteen: Watchful Eyes**

Erik rapped on the door of Christine's bedroom and walked in without waiting for a reply. The door was unlocked anyway, and he would not – _could_ not – wait.

He closed the door behind him and the resulting click echoed in the silence…the oddly thick silence. Tearing his eyes from the door handle, he sought out Christine.

The sight that met his eyes would have made him drop the tea in his hands if not for the fact that he was frozen on the spot, his jaw hanging open slightly.

Christine was reclined upon her bed, curled up in sleep once more. The light from the lamp on her bedside table caused something metallic on a delicate chain around her slender neck to sparkle, drawing his eyes.

It was a golden ring.

Heart pounding a rapid and painful rhythm against his chest, Erik's eyes desperately searched the floor.

The gaudy diamond engagement ring from the Vicomte de Chagny remained in its resting place, untouched near the foot of Christine's bed.

For a moment, thoughts tumbled around Erik's head like leaves in a whirlwind. He took a deep breath and attempted to sort things out, which was quite difficult when the blood in his veins burned with barely restrained excitement.

It was not the vicomte's ring. The ring was still on the floor. If the ring was still on the floor, what ring was on Christine's chain?

Deeming it safe to approach her while she was in the embrace of sleep, Erik silently padded over to a table along the wall and placed the tea carefully on its gleaming surface. His hands had ceased their shaking. Walking with a light tread and making as much noise as a ghost would, Erik edged closer to Christine's bed, his amber eyes fastened on the golden band nestled in her bosom. Erik held his breath as he walked, wary of making any sound although he would wager Christine was in a deep enough slumber that it would not have mattered if he stomped over to her. His eyes were keen, but he refused to believe what they beheld until he was close enough to reach out and touch the ring. Besides, she was sleeping, and there was no harm in just looking. He had enough sense not to touch.

His fingers were ghosting ever-so-lightly along the smooth metal ring before he could stop himself. _Okay, perhaps I don't have enough sense._ But he had needed to prove it was real; he had needed to prove his eyes true by actually touching the warm gold band.

The simple golden engagement ring that he had given to Christine long ago lay innocently upon her gently rising and falling breast.

Emotions swelled within him, and fire coursed through his veins. He took a deep breath, releasing it through his parted lips as he closed his eyes against the tears of ecstasy that stung them.

Christine had not been threatened to coerce her into wearing the ring. In fact, he had not even known she had kept the trinket.

She had not been afraid of losing the influence of the Angel of Music – who she no longer believed in – and so she had not worn the ring out of fear of abandonment.

True, she did not wear the ring on her finger, but she wore it just the same. How could he misinterpret this?

Erik's original intentions of letting Christine remain in blissful slumber were cast aside. The blood in his veins thundered in his ears as he allowed himself to sit upon the edge of the bed. He moved unconsciously after that, and seemed to watch it from outside his body as he mentally smothered the little voice in his head that he supposed might be his conscious.

Placing a hand on either side of her sleeping form, Erik burning eyes devoured Christine's lithe form. The thought that the woman before him – the beautiful, charming songbird he had captured and caged – would wear his engagement ring of her own free will was the catalyst for other, less wholesome thoughts. To love her and to be loved back had seemed an impossibility a moment before: a mere daydream for a cursed monster such as himself. Now hope had fanned the flames of the fiery passion he had sought to quell with denial.

The prospect of not holding her, not whispering words of love and devotion to his angel was an unthinkable torture. Even if he would not allow himself that, though, he still had to ask her…

Erik shifted his weight to rest upon one elbow, bringing himself closer to Christine. That little voice in his head screamed in protest, insisting that closing the distance between them was wrong and immoral, but it was entirely ignored for the moment. He could feel her warm breath upon his lips, the heat of her body under his, and for a moment he simply rested there and drank in the sensation of being so near to her. Unconsciously he matched his breathing to hers, assuming the deep and calming breaths that she took. He felt oddly lightheaded and detached from himself as his ungloved hand traveled to the side of Christine's pale, graceful neck, tracing its curve as he trailed his finger lightly along the golden chain of her necklace and to the ring.

Suddenly the haze that had blanketed his mind rose and he realized how shocking and likely frightening it would be for Christine to awaken to his masked face hovering inches from hers; but it was too late to undo the damage that his befuddled brain had caused.

Christine's eyes fluttered open. Deep chocolate orbs locked on his wide and frightened amber eyes.

He dared not breathe. A muscle in his jaw twitched under his porcelain mask, either because he expected to be firmly slapped or denounced a monster. To be fair, he would deserve either. Watching a sleeping woman was bad enough. Touching her while she slept was scandalous. And an innocent young woman such as Christine would have every right to scream and strike him across his face. He had no idea what he had been thinking, and every curse he could call to mind frantically flashed across his consciousness.

For a fleeting moment, he debated running and later denying he was ever there. _She might think it was a dream…a nightmare_, he corrected himself mentally. He had to restrain laughter that he recognized as the beginnings of panic.

He winced visibly as Christine's eyes cast off the clouds of sleep and focused on him keenly.

Erik closed his eyes and cringed, every one of his muscles tensing, waiting for the blow.

None came.

Christine had not moved – had not scrambled from his arms hastily. A queer thudding noise was the only sound that echoed in his ears.

Dimly he realized it was his heart.

Erik's mouth ran dry as he worked up the courage to open his eyes once more. When he finally peered nervously back at Christine, he did not believe his eyes.

She was blushing: innocent, soft brown eyes shining above rosy cheeks. Christine did not attempt to free herself from her close proximity to Erik: her trusting gaze remained firmly on him.

That reaction, Erik decided, was the last thing he had expected…but it caused lightning to course through his tensed body.

The blush seemed like permission to speak, to proceed with what he had meant to do before she awoke. Emboldened, Erik's long fingers lifted the ring from Christine's chest, turning it and watching it shimmer in the lamplight.

"Christine…" he whispered in a half-sigh. It held all the adoration and worship of any utterance by a Christian believer.

She licked her parted lips, which only served to draw his hungry eyes once more to them. "I…I brought it with me when I heard that you were-" she broke off, apparently reluctant to speak of his supposed death.

A shuddering sigh: "You kept it all this time? But why…?"

He let the ring fall back in its place, locking questioning amber eyes on Christine to read every facet of her response.

Christine's delicate eyebrows arched as she raised them. The expression of pure surprise on her face made him wonder if she had just now discovered his implied question: why did she still carry it with her, even now?

"Why? Because you gave it to me, Erik," she stated plainly.

Her surprise swiftly changed to shock as Erik hung his head, shoulders shaking silently.

"Erik? What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, concerned she had said something that had saddened him.

On the contrary, Erik had never been more pleased by a simple response in his entire life. Never before had someone actively tried to preserve something of his in remembrance of him. Every other person he had had the intense displeasure of meeting had attempted to scour their mind of any thought of him, not to mention removed any physical evidence of his existence. But here was a girl that wanted to remember him, and she had no idea of the impact of her words and actions on his hardened heart.

His shoulders were shaking with laughter, because if he did not laugh at the irony of the situation, he would likely cry.

When he did not reply, Christine's small hand slid under his chin, boldly lifting his masked face to look at hers. The softness of his eyes did not conceal the odd emotion that she saw flashing within the golden orbs. She could feel the burning passion in his unflinching gaze. She bit her rosy lip unconsciously, the redness returning to her cheeks with a vengeance.

Erik finally broke the silence that stretched between them.

"Don't bite your lip."

"Sorry," she apologized sheepishly, lowering her eyes.

He arched his eyebrow mischievously, stroking her blushing cheek tenderly and bringing her chocolate eyes back to his. He seemed to ponder for a moment before speaking once more.

"Would you like to attend the Opera?"

XXXXXXXX

Mere days after his rescue from his own home, Raoul had once more entered back into Parisian society. The aristocratic circles he had commonly frequented were more than pleased to see him out and about once more, offering him sympathy for his late illness and praise for his determination to overcome his resulting weakness. Luckily for Raoul, the dark circles around his eyes and the pallid tone of his skin were taken for aftereffects of his brave battle with influenza, a late affliction that he did not recall suffering from.

Raoul de Chagny had resumed his habit of regularly attending the Opera, and found himself at the moment amongst a manner of dinner party before the showing of the newest production. From his position near the corner of the dazzlingly bright gilded room – standing beside a statue of a goddess – he sipped his glass of wine and observed the idle chatter and socialization of the elite that surrounded him. Impeccably dressed men strutted about in their top hats and swallowtail suits, with their bejeweled and elaborately gowned ladies upon their arms. It was by no means a ball; Raoul knew that the finery that the Opera patrons sported at the moment were nothing in comparison with the silks and diamonds they wore on more important occasions. Nevertheless, he knew their appearance was enough to make a commoner gasp in awe and envy.

It was, however, a show…and one that he grew increasingly bored of, even if he had not been out of the Chagny estate for what seemed like an eternity. The only thing that had ever made these gatherings at the Opera interesting was the prospect of seeing Christine Daae either before or after them (naturally not during, for she would be preparing to perform upon the stage). But she was not here, and would not be. Without companionship, or the chance of it at some time during the night, the room felt cold despite the amount of people in it and the heating to ward off the growing chill in the air outside.

The approach of a man and his wife interrupted Raoul de Chagny's depressing musings, and, like any good Parisian, Raoul assumed a mask of happiness to hide his sorrow. They greeted each other with a warm handshake and smile.

"Ah, Vicomte!" the man beamed as he continued shaking Raoul's hand, his chubby face and shining blue eyes reminding Raoul pointedly of the cherubs that graced the walls in some rooms of the Opera. "I believe you have met my wife, Isabelle?"

"But of course," Raoul said with a winning grin, taking the woman's offered hand and kissing it.

Frankly, Raoul could not for the life of him remember meeting the portly man's wife, much less the man himself.

"We had heard of your illness, and I told Alexandre that we simply _had_ to come over and inquire of your health. I certainly hope you are doing alright now; influenza is such a frightful sickness! Your brother Philippe informed us of your condition. I hope he is doing well," the woman chattered, the feathers upon her hat swaying alarmingly as she spoke with many nods of her head.

Raoul had to buy himself some time by sipping at his wine before answering.

"Yes, I'm quite well now, if a trifle bit tired. My brother is doing well; it seems he has managed to avoid the illness he was so worried of catching from me." _Perhaps because he believed my illness was madness, and madness is not quite as contagious as the flu._

He could not restrain a chuckle at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He was speaking with a couple he did not know of an illness that he never had while he himself would have wished to God that the reason for his absence had been influenza. The couple laughed with him, although they exchanged a nervous glance. Apparently they too had heard the rumors that had managed to leak from the mouths of the ballet rats that had found him that night. Whispers of his possible mental infirmity had been quelled slightly by Philippe's proclamation of his ill health, but they still hung unspoken in the air.

Desperate to change the subject since it obviously affected the vicomte in odd ways, the man named Alexandre cleared his throat nervously, losing some of the reddish hue to his large face as he searched for another topic of discussion.

"…W-Well, my dear vicomte, where is that vision of a girl – that singer that I have often seen you with in the lounges? What was her name…? Ah, yes, Christine Daae!" Alexandre appeared very pleased with himself at the remembrance of a mere singer's name, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels with a grin.

Raoul once more calmly sipped his wine and peered over the rim of his glass at the couple. They waited patiently, but the swaying of the woman's feathers betrayed her eagerness to hear his answer. Alexandre had a mischievous smile upon his lips and Isabelle leaned closer, loathe to miss any of the juicy gossip about the strapping young vicomte and his scandalous relationship with Christine Daae. It seemed that no end of amusement among the aristocracy would come from the idea of the Vicomte de Chagny with an opera singer.

He ran a finger along the edge of his glass, drawing out the tension as he inwardly seethed at their open mockery of his beloved Christine. Coolly raising a blonde eyebrow, Raoul fixed his icy blue eyes on them.

"You have not heard? She has passed away. Murdered, apparently."

The expression on their faces would have made Raoul laugh if it had been any other circumstance. But his face remained placidly frigid, and he did not speak as he watched the couple gape at him like freshly caught fish. A few other patrons that had been in the vicinity (and eavesdropping) silenced their own conversations instantly and casually moved away as if they had suddenly taken a keen interest in the food table at the far end of the room.

"I…I'm so terribly sorry," the man offered, eyes wide, as his wife babbled something that most likely was also an apology. They seemed to vanish, walking away so swiftly that Raoul wondered how the large man managed it. He supposed it helped that his wife was propelling him along at full speed.

Finding himself once more relatively alone, Raoul drained the remaining contents of his wineglass and grabbed another from the tray of a passing servant. He could not restrain a twisted frown that came to his lips at the thought of the idiotic man he had just spoken to. _Those pompous fools, strutting about like peacocks and poking their obnoxious noses where they don't belong. I knew they likely snickered behind closed doors about my relationship with Christine, but to have the gall to say something to my face! At least that shut them up quickly, whoever they were._

It was not as if Christine Daae was actually dead, but the common Parisian did not know the truth. It would be useless to deny the fact; at least it would earn him odd glances from anyone who read the news, and at most it could land him back in the prison of his home and in the waiting arms of his misguided brother.

Proceeding with his attempt to drown his morose sorrows, Raoul tipped the glass back to his lips once more.

A slender hand delicately touched the bottom of the wineglass, making him lower it from his lips. Raoul saw the oval face and wry smile of a pretty woman through the red liquid before he lowered his glass and swallowed.

A young lady dressed in a midnight blue gown stood before him, her white gloved hands now folded serenely before her. Her red lips were still smiling at him as she idly brushed a stray golden curl from before her wide blue eyes.

Since Raoul seemed content to simply stare at her in a bewildered manner, she spoke first.

"I apologize for it, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Monsieur Alexandre," Her melodic voice was lowered to a near-whisper, attempting to hide her statements from the patrons who had slowly moved back into the area around the vicomte. "He is an abominable fool, as it is, and I'm not surprised in the least that he lacks the tact to keep his foolish opinions to himself."

That she could say all this with that charming smile on her face was more than enough to make Raoul's mind reel. Here was a woman, apparently alone and without an escort, dressed richly in her blue silk and diamonds, with words of brutal honesty flowing from her curved lips. The utter bluntness of her comments would have been offensive and repulsing to any upper class Parisian, especially coming from a new acquaintance.

As it was, Raoul shared her opinions, although he kept them silent, and her brave honesty and unusual ways spurred feelings of camaraderie in the young man.

"I…don't believe I remember you," Raoul said slowly, fixing her with a curious eye and swirling his wine idly in the glass.

"That would be because we have not met, Raoul de Chagny," she chuckled, the sound like bells. "I'm Antoinette Lansfeld."

The name called forth a memory in his mind; he believed that he had once had a few members of the Lansfeld family over to the Chagny estate for dinner. Philippe had spoken endlessly of a young blonde daughter of theirs: a famed beauty. Raoul could understand why.

He set down his glass upon a nearby table, and then took her offered hand and kissed it gently.

Suddenly he grinned mischievously and tilted his head.

"Would you like to go for a walk? These people are _suffocating_ me."

The young blonde's smile grew, and she laughed again. "I was waiting for you to ask…"

And, offering her his arm, Raoul and Antoinette proceeded to leave the crowded room and the Paris Opera House.

Whispered words such as "scandalous affair", "just met the girl", and "so soon after Mademoiselle Daae's death" followed them out of the room, but they went unnoticed by the two young people.

They were also blissfully ignorant of the glowing, watchful eyes that followed them out into the moonlit streets of Paris.

XXXXXXXXXXX

After leaving the noisy atmosphere surrounding the Paris Opera House, the night was quiet aside from the odd carriage that rattled past under the streetlights. A few pedestrians walked the streets as well, but unlike the two well-dressed young people walking arm in arm, they had a purpose to their path. The passing people clutched their cloaks about them, shooting furtive glances at the unusual pair before locking their eyes on the ground once more and hurrying off.

Finding an ornate fountain of Aphrodite and a collection of lovers, Raoul led Antoinette to the edge of it and they sat down. The stone was cold, cooler even than the air, but they ignored it as they listened silently to the splashing of the water behind them. A few moments of comfortable quiet passed, and then Raoul spoke.

"I apologize for my behavior…what can I be thinking? You probably left a handsome young man waiting for you back at the Opera, and I dragged you off here to sit on a cold fountain and stare at the deserted streets." The disgust in his tone was evident, which was fortunate. It masked his shy desire that she was not, in fact, with another man. He wanted some manner of innocent company in his dark hours.

Antoinette brushed his apology aside with a wave of her gloved hand, which glowed white in the night. "Don't worry yourself over it. I didn't come with a man; I came with my attendant, and she's overwhelmingly boring when it comes to things like this. Insisted that I prance about meeting prominent men. Upon my life, I swear she had me introduced to every man in the room that was eligible for marriage." She almost spat the last word.

Tilting his head curiously, Raoul arched his eyebrows. "I didn't remember seeing her when you introduced yourself to me. Am I not a _prominent _enough of a figure for her taste?"

Raoul chuckled at his own joke, but Antoinette smiled mischievously. "Actually," she confided, leaning closer as if someone could have heard them, "you were the _one _person that she forbid me to meet. She said you looked gloomy and ill-natured, standing in a corner such as that and glaring at everyone." She laughed.

"Glaring? Was I really?" Raoul exclaimed, appalled at his unconscious behavior.

"Oh yes. And the way you chased off Monsieur Alexandre and his wife did not make the situation any better. You seemed as if you wished to drown yourself in wine, and I could not allow that before I discovered what brought that frown to your face. Feminine curiosity, you know," she said with an air of seriousness that was betrayed by the white shine of her grin in the dark.

Raoul couldn't help but match her grin as he wondered at her odd ways. He hadn't quite figured the girl out, and as he had nothing better to do at the moment, he was determined to do so.

"So how did you lose your attendant? And won't she be missing you when she discovers you to be gone?" Genuine concern showed upon his shadowed face, and Antoinette patted his hand gently.

"Oh no, my dear vicomte. She would not notice I was gone if I didn't come back for a decade. At the moment she is speaking with the chef who prepared the delicious food at the dinner party. If there is one interest she has other than making my life miserable, it is food. I arranged that she should receive a tour of the kitchens. In all seriousness, I have a few good hours before I even cross her mind." Her blue eyes danced with the reflected light of the streetlamps.

"So, monsieur, do you mind if I inquire as to why you were standing in your lonesome corner with such a frown upon your face?"

Something fell into the water behind them with a distinct _plunk_ that made Antoinette almost jump out of her skin, forgetting her question. Clutching her heaving chest with one delicate hand, she stood and peered through the falling waters of the fountain, attempting to see the other side.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, barely loud enough for Raoul to hear her over the babble of the fountain.

"It's nothing, I'm sure," Raoul insisted, although the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and a cold sweat began on his forehead.

Leaning closer in order to see more in the shadows behind the statues of the women, Antoinette squinted.

"No…no, I think I see someone there," the shaking of her hands betrayed the calm confidence in her voice.

Taking her shaking hand in his, Raoul pulled gently, trying to divert her attention. "Come, Mademoiselle Landsfeld, it was probably a cat. Just a cat, knocking a rock into the water." He spoke quietly and firmly in his attempt to calm her.

"It doesn't look like a cat," she retorted, shaking her head. "No, I'm sure it's not. I'll just go and take a look…"

Removing her hand from his and taking a few tentative steps around the side of the circular stone base, Antoinette steadily – if a bit shakily – made her way towards the shadowed figure she thought she saw amongst the gloom.

A firm hand closed over her arm, and she spun in surprise, a muffled scream escaping her lips. Raoul stood next to her, and he took her hand in his with a swift and nervous look at the shadows she had been approaching.

"Monsieur? What…?" she sputtered, trying to control her erratic heartbeat after the shock he had given her.

"It's likely nothing," Raoul whispered, leaning in close to her ear. His breath tickled lightly, and she shivered under his hand on her shoulder. "But if it _is_ something, it is likely some manner of riffraff that I'd rather not have a lady inquiring into. The streets of Paris are not the safest places to be at night. I have no idea what I was thinking in bringing you here. Come, let's return to the Opera."

Ignoring her protests, Raoul put his arm around the inquisitive girl, leading her away from the fountain.

He spared a glance over his shoulder.

A streetlamp flickered nearby, shifting the landscape in and out of darkness. A shadowed figure leaped from the stone base of the fountain and rushed off into the night, melding with the other patches of dark on the street and avoiding the pools of light from the lamps.

Noticing his hesitation, Antoinette stopped in her tracks, looking at Raoul's face.

"…Monsieur? What is it?" her cheeks had lost their color, and she trembled beneath his arm.

"Nothing, mademoiselle. Nothing."

And he turned and led them away once more, although he quickened the pace considerably.

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**Okay, now for a bit of explanation. Antoinette is NOT just a random girl placed in there for the heck of it. Please don't send me reviews saying Raoul walking off with her is OOC, because trust me, it will all make sense later on lol. Just have to set the dominoes up so I can knock them all down –bwah haha-.**

**For all the reviews I received: thank you. No, really. Thank you. I received more words of understanding than I expected (which doesn't surprise me since I expected none lol), and it really pleases me that you care enough about the story to wait for it. Since I'm still being wary of that rumor I heard about breaking down on responses to reviews, I won't respond to them all – but I desperately want to! Trust me, I'm doing my research to find out the truth about that rumor, because I miss getting to respond to each of you individually. –sigh- Just don't think that I've stopped caring…**

**I will do my best to work on another chapter, and hopefully I can get it up next weekend…I'm crossing my fingers and praying on this one!**


	20. Bittersweet Memories

**I've decided that I'm going to respond to the reviews anyway. Whether the rumor I heard is true or not, it would only make sense that the offending author would receive a warning before her story is taken down, so until I'm directly told to quit I'm not going to. **

**Twinkle22: **I'm glad you enjoyed it! Ahh, the mysterious rock…well, everything will be made clear in the end. I'll do my best to get another update up soon, but school is my worst enemy.  
**Emmanuelle Lisselle Grey: **The mysterious girl is really a minor character, but by having her in there it allows me to make the story work in twisted and evil ways lol. And we all should know by now that I like to be tricky.  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **Glad you enjoyed it! I want to update really soon, but I get the feeling that I won't complete any homework if I give in to my desire to just write this whole weekend…-sigh-  
**Mianne: **Ah, sorry. OOC is out of character. I was worried that people would wonder why Raoul suddenly took to another girl when he was just rescued by the Persian and Meg and knows the truth of Christine's "death". Anyways, I'm ecstatic that you liked the chapter, and I hope you will enjoy the ones to come!  
**Pertie: **Yes, didn't it take long enough for Erik and Christine to get to the point where they can put their pride aside for a moment and show a bit of affection from now on? But they're both rather stubborn people, and things like that usually take time. I (in my "professional" opinion haha) believe that Raoul is in fact both disturbing AND disturbed. But I'm glad that you realized he's up to something…and yes, yes, I'll get to my homework. It IS important to do homework, but not for the grade. I can't sleep if I know I haven't done all of my work haha!  
**Operatic:** Raoul is an intriguing mystery at the moment, but his motives will be clear soon. I'm trying to tie in more references to Leroux, so I decided to add in the bit about the ring; glad you liked it. Thanks for the support!  
**Kagome1514: **Yep, see? I'm responding to the reviews anyways. Glad you liked the bit of EC, and yes, Raoul is going somewhere with his random trips to the Opera to meet women lol. Drop me a line sometime!  
**Noni-Noelle: **Wow, I got someone to like Raoul! (stares in shock) Nah, really, I don't hate Raoul all that much, and I want him to be happy, but it will be some time before his motives regarding Antoinette are clear. Haha, isn't Erik always adorable? He'd be so much happier if he could always ignore the voice in his head that tells him to sit in a corner all alone and never love anyone. Thanks for the review!  
**PhantomPhluter: **Haha, well now you get your wish! I figure I'll respond to reviews until they threaten to take my story down. I'm very happy that you've stayed with my story. (sigh) Yes, I enjoyed CrazyRaoul as much as the next person, but unfortunately I have better uses for him at the moment…bwah haha!  
**Faust: **I'll respond until they threaten to boot me out in person! Rumors may just be false, you know. You can skip the parts with Raoul if you wish, but things may not make sense if you skip too many of them. But hey, you're the reader, and whatever gives you the most enjoyment, do it!  
**SuniMoon: **That's alright, take your time in getting caught up. Ten to one it's going to take me forever to post anyway lol.  
**LastBreath:** Cast your veil of sadness away! I'm responding to reviews again, and I'll keep responding as long as I get them (and as long as I'm not kicked off for it lol). I'm glad you liked the part about the ring; I just figured I should tie that bit into there again. Thanks for the review!  
**Shieta: **As much as I feed off of reviews, I can more than understand not having the time to write one for every chapter. I feel the pain of a lack of hours in the day haha. Glad you like the way things are going! I'm going to take a bit of a twist with it soon…but we shall see. Thanks for the encouragement as well; it's much appreciated.  
**InuLvr7: **Haha, thoroughly thrilled, eh? That's good to know…let's see if you're right!  
**Milky-White: **Well, dahling, hence my disclaimer: "for those of you who would consider this filler (as I kinda do), then consider this needed filler." Haha! As for the word "okay", I did a little research and found that although it was extensively used in everyday speech, the spelling "okay" was not used until the 1860s (within the time period). I figured that I'd be fine with using it once (and even then in Erik's thoughts) haha. If you have a source saying otherwise though, I'd love to see it since research on the word "okay" isn't very conclusive, as I've discovered (grin). Glad you enjoyed the last scene! Oh, and do be patient with Antoinette…her purpose isn't just to be a love interest for Raoul! Thanks for the review! (laughs at the Erik-growl)  
**XxXphantomsroseXxX: **As happy as I am to know that you enjoy how things are going, I just have to play the devil and throw a wrench in things. You'll see how Christine takes it…lol. This chapter and the next should quicken the pace as we go into the next big turning point in the story! Thanks for the review!  
**Lauren: **Wow, you were just introduced to fanfiction and you've already read all my chapters in one week! I'm flattered! Thank you for the compliments, and I certainly hope you will continue to enjoy not only my story, but other fanfiction in general. It's a wonderful thing! Thanks for the review!  
**Jazzy7000: **Thank you! I hope you enjoy the chapters to come, because it takes a bit of a twist…  
**Andrea: **Thank you, Andrea, for understanding. I do try to put a little of myself in the story, but sometimes I worry it will become too serious or angsty for everyone's taste. Once more, thank you very much, and I will try my best to keep improving my writing.  
**Scorpion's Muse: **I just had to put that kitchen utensils line in there to make it a bit more lighthearted haha. I don't hate you at all for being RC; he has a right to love just like anyone else does! I just prefer the evil/angsty/twisted/tortured Erik to Raoul (shrug). Thanks for reviewing!  
**TwistedeverywayforErik: **Thanks for the compliments! I hope you continue to read and enjoy!  
**ElectricDragon: **Thanks for the reviews! Yes, I will admit, the thought of Raoul getting drunk would be rather entertaining (imagines it)…Thanks for reading!  
**Kodukadvakch: **Haha! I'm glad that line made your day. I must admit, it was very fun to randomly put that in there to lighten the mood. Thanks for reading, Kodu!  
**Poisoned Allure: **Glad you enjoy it! I'll be sure to get to writing, now that I have two extra days this week to do so…thanks for reading!  
**Tziporah: **I rather doubt you'll read this far since this is stated "EC" and you are strictly "RC" and desperately hate anything otherwise (as I can see in you review), but I certainly hope your review wasn't made to incite my anger. I think, as you can see, it failed to do so. I just beg that in the future you review for the purpose of compliments or constructive criticism, not for destructively unjustified comments and the shock value you said you expected in your email. Alas, I regret I cannot remove your review now that you are ashamed of your words and begged for me to do so…but it is not within my power. Best of luck in your writings.  
**Avovisto: **I just saw the play…and it more than renewed the fire that I once had POTO, so I understand your feelings! Thanks for reading and waiting!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Bittersweet Memories**

Christine sat at the stool before the pipe organ, running her slender fingers along the ivory keys, although her eyes were not looking at them. What had captured her attention was the figure in the corner of the room, sitting at an ebony desk, where the flickering candle flames illuminated only part of his features. With his handsome masked face resting on the palm of one hand, he propped himself up on his elbow and scribbled a note upon a sheet of parchment with scarlet ink, frowning in concentration. He did not look up from his work, paying no attention whatsoever to the fact that there was someone else in the room.

Christine tried her best not to fidget, but her hand moved unconsciously to the golden ring around her neck. She twirled it idly between her fingers, biting her lip as she tried to restrain herself from speaking. Unspoken words burned upon her tongue, but she restrained herself as if obediently heeding an order. The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel grated upon her already taut nerves.

The scratching of his pen. The tick of the clock. More scratching. In a moment Christine was either going to smash the clock upon the floor or dip Erik's pen in the inkpot to cease the infernal scratching noise that arose from lack of ink. But she would not allow her body to move from its perch on the stool.

An eternity passed by sluggishly; something invisible but heavy seemed to be hanging upon the hands of the clock and further slowing their plodding travel about the face. The dance of the shadows in contrast to the flickering glow of the candlelight threatened to place Christine under some manner of mesmerizing spell.

She snapped back from her numb unawareness at the shuffling of papers. Finally finishing with his letter and setting it aside, Erik's face remained completely unreadable, if a tad severe. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, and a muscle in his jaw twitched sporadically as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Straightening his desk area (which meant pushing all the crumpled paper in one pile) and putting a stopper on the ink bottle, Erik leaned back in his chair, placed one lean arm along the back of it, and drummed a tune upon the desk with the long fingers of his other hand.

A few moments passed where he stared blankly at the collection of crumpled, ink stained papers upon his desk and tapped his fingers rhythmically.

The clock ticked. Christine stared at his profile. He avoided her gaze. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers drummed.

Finally his tense body relaxed, and he sighed heavily. Swirling his chair around to face the pipe organ, he finally decided to acknowledge Christine's presence. His golden eyes fiercely snapped to Christine's, and she couldn't help but grin openly at the exasperation on the visible side of his face. For a moment Erik favored intimidation, glaring heatedly at Christine. Upon realizing his fear tactics did not work and Christine would not leave him in peace until she received what she sought, he conceded with another heavy sigh.

"Fine, FINE...get ready and we'll go." Erik rolled his eyes in frustration, but couldn't fully hide the smirk that fought to replace his false scowl.

The young woman, who had lately been as still as a garden statue, seemed to be galvanized by his words. Christine leaped to her feet, her brown curls bouncing around her shoulders, seeming to mirror her excitement; she clapped her hands together with barely-restrained joy. Before Erik could move or make an exclamation of surprise or protest, the beaming young woman had crossed the space between them, perched herself daintily upon his knee, and brushed a kiss upon his left cheek. She giggled and whisked herself away, twirling elegantly in a circle before rushing off to her room to prepare herself.

Erik was left staring at her closed door with his mouth gaping and the ghost of a blush dusted across his unmasked cheek.

XXXXXXX

The mysterious disappearance of Raoul de Chagny had plunged the entire estate into disarray. Upon awaking from his "fainting spell", Philippe had behaved as a man possessed. Ordering every inch of the mansion searched, he himself had scoured Raoul's bedroom with his sharp eyes, even going so far as to look under the rug – as if a grown man could have been concealed there. Realizing that the only explanations for the singular occurrence of the sudden absence of his younger brother would be either clever escape or abduction, Philippe naturally had become quite curious as to his conveniently timed fainting spell. He had refused any manner of examination by a doctor; the servants, who were convinced of his infirmity, constantly found reasons to dust figurines or straighten books in the rooms he resided. Their eyes had weighed heavily upon Philippe for days.

Philippe was not dense. To report the absence of his brother meant that he would also be required to report his mental instability, bringing shame and unwanted attention to the Chagny name. To ignore the absence and simply wait for his return would mean unleashing a possible hazard out into Parisian society. Having Raoul free to mutter his inane and deranged fancies to prominent members of the aristocracy did not bode well with Philippe. He developed what he believed to be a stomach ulcer with his constant worrying for the wellbeing of the family name. Philippe wanted nothing more than to have some word, some hint, of where his lost brother may have wandered.

And then it happened. As things usually do in Paris, the latest gossip traveled almost magically to the waiting ears of the estate's servant girls.

Rushing into the library and barely skidding to a halt in order to half-bob a curtsey, a red cheeked brunette panted out the words, "He's in Paris…been attending the Opera…going to be there tonight…_Faust_."

Looking up from his reading, Philippe fixed the disheveled girl with a chilling glare that clearly expressed his annoyance.

"What are you talking about, girl?" He demanded, lowering his eyes once more to the text before him.

"Your brother, monsieur. The vicomte," she said, catching her breath and clutching her skirts nervously.

The book fell numbly from Philippe's hands, hitting the floor with a heavy _thump_.

"…._What_?" Barely restrained anger laced his voice, and the hard lines of his face deepened in a frightening manner. The servant girl shrank back unconsciously, as if expecting to be struck.

Leaping to his feet, Philippe paced the length of the room, his long legs covering the space quickly. He clenched his hands behind his back, frowning darkly as he walked. Instead of calming his nerves, it only succeeded to stoke the fire further.

_This will be the end of the Chagny line_, he thought with despair. In a way his concern was well-founded; before Raoul had reentered Parisian society, it would have been possible to find him and restrain his disturbed mind once more before it caused damage to the family name. Now, with his regular appearances at the opera, it would require a miracle to take Raoul back under his wing without causing an uproar.

With a sigh of despair, he ran his fingers over his mustache. _God only knows how much damage has already been done…_

Finally ceasing his repetitive steps, Philippe glanced at the servant girl who cowered in the threshold of the room – hesitant to leave if she was needed, but frightened of the discomposure of her normally icy master. Upon noticing her wide-eyed fear, Philippe took a few calming breaths and regained his composure.

"Yes…thank you. Have the carriage ready, if you would," he stated evenly, once more the picture of icy calm.

Before waiting for her answer or even her curtsey, he brushed past the young girl and made his way to his room with determination.

If Raoul was to be the downfall of the family on this night, Philippe would at least be present to watch the towers come crumbling down.

XXXXXXXX

Shrugging into his heavy black coat and meticulously buttoning the black fabric, Erik finally brought his golden eyes up to look at his reflection in the mirror. Idly his fingers smoothed his silver vest, adjusted the white cravat, and straightened his swallowtail coat. His hair was still damp with the bath he had taken and he swiftly ran a comb through it, slicking it back neatly. Everything regarding his dress was carefully made as near to perfect as possible.

And then his eyes traveled up the mirror to his face. The hideous deformity over the right side of his features glared back at him, daring him to call his appearance handsome with such a face. Erik felt his heart sink within his chest, and he reached resignedly for the white mask that rested upon the nearby table to the right.

Something made him stop, his long fingers hovering millimeters from the smooth porcelain. Turning slowly back to the mirror, Erik raised his hand hesitantly and finally placed his palm against the cool glass, obscuring the mangled half of his face. _To have Christine look upon me as a normal man, to be rid of this curse even for one night…_

He watched as his left eye widened and his lips parted; the epiphany that he experienced was reflected back to him in the mirror. Turning from his reflection and rushing over to the shelf, his trembling hands seized an ebony box and fumbled clumsily with the latch upon it. Breaths came to him quickly and raggedly, as if he had been running for a long time. At last he wrenched the latch open and threw the lid back.

A perfectly formed side of a face lay before him on the red velvet lining. Setting the box down gently upon a table, Erik's fingers curled under the flesh-like mask, lifting it reverently from its resting place and bringing it into the candlelight. The flames danced along its surface, giving it the rosy glow of real flesh. A deep ache settled in his chest.

This was the mask that Erik made to grant himself the life of a normal man. The supple material gave beneath his fingers like actual skin, if a bit firmer. He had fashioned it carefully over the years he had been eyeing Christine as his eventual bride, imagining long walks on Sunday afternoons with his wife like any other man. But the curse he was born with needed to remain hidden from prying eyes, and the usual mask he donned frightened people almost as much. Finally, after long hours of toiling by the light of candles and many sleepless nights, he had created a masterpiece of false beauty to hide the horrible ugliness of half of his face. Now his body could reflect the angel in his voice, now he could be worthy of the love of Christine…

But when she had abandoned him, alone in the blackest pit of hell, Erik had no reason for appearing as a regular man. Without Christine, life and its vanities held little purpose. He had hidden the mask away, secured in the little ebony box of false hope and decaying dreams.

But Christine had returned, and with his decision to attend the Opera Erik needed some way to conceal his face without attaching a sign to himself stating "The Phantom of the Opera". What better time than now – on the night of his return to the magnificent and mysterious domain of the Paris Opera House, with the performance of the infamous _Faust_ – to present the acclaimed "New Marguerite" escorted by the new Erik?

The Parisian society believed the Opera Ghost to be dead; no one but the insane vicomte de Chagny would suspect his true identity, and he was safely secured in a mental asylum somewhere. No harm would come from Christine being there either; with the proclamation of her death, those who would recognize her and announce her identity could be assured of a comfortable room in the same place as the delusional Raoul boy. Rationally, there would be no danger in their visit to the Paris Opera House.

_Or you could simply tell Christine the truth_, the little voice in his head that he had grown to loathe murmured. _Confess that a return to the Opera could end all that you have worked to create, that it would most likely – and literally – be the death of you?_

_But I promised her…I promised…_

And with that, he made the decision that would seal his fate and the fate of his beloved.

Closing his eyes, he delicately settled the odd material of the mask over the left side of his face. Unlike his white mask, which felt perpetually cold, this one warmed to the temperature of his skin. Taking a deep breath to steady his shuddering body, he ran his hand from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his jaw. It _felt_ almost entirely seamless, but would it deceive the eye?

Steeling himself for disappointment, Erik spun on his heel and locked eyes with his reflection on the other side of the room.

A stranger stared back with wide, frightened eyes and a trembling frame. Acting upon instinct, Erik's hand involuntarily made a grab for the Punjab lasso that constantly remained concealed at his side. The other man moved his hand as well. Blushing slightly and feeling quite sheepish, Erik warily stepped towards the mirror to better see his handiwork.

He had not recognized the man because it was not _him_, or the man he knew himself as. The smooth, defined face with the golden eyes was not his…or so it seemed. Feeling oddly detached from his own body, he mechanically grabbed his cloak that had been lying in wait upon the back of his armchair and made his way out of his room, blowing out the candles as he went.

XXXXXXXXXX

A smart rapping upon wood caused Christine to turn from her mirror, and she quickly pinned up a stray curl before hurrying to her door with another hairpin still held in her mouth, the skirts of her lavender gown whispering softly. She absentmindedly opened the door, fiddling with her hair once more as she fully knew who it was calling.

"I'll be ready in a second, Eri-," she began, speaking around the pin, but upon looking up she fell silent. Her jaw hung slack with surprise, and the hairpin fell from her parted lips. A gloved hand caught it deftly before it could hit the stone floor.

It was who she had expected, but a different man entirely.

The man before her was Erik, the Erik that was meant to be if God had not played such a cruel trick upon a poor angel. His unblemished face was perfect: lean, smooth and chiseled, giving him the handsome appearance that he would have had if he had not been forsaken by beauty. Christine found that she had momentarily caught her breath in her lungs, and she tried to gain the oxygen she needed without audibly gasping. She could not draw her eyes away from him. Golden eyes probed hers cautiously, trying to ascertain her thoughts.

"..You'll be ready in a second?" he prompted, one eyebrow arching upwards gracefully.

Christine blushed furiously. The sound of his melodious voice paired with his matching angelic looks threatened to tie her tongue in knots. He gave her a queer look, apparently noticing her flushed face and lack of a reply.

"Yes," Christine forced out the word, and a shuddering and welcome breath followed. "Yes, I will be ready in a moment. You…You simply surprised me…"

Instinctively his hand twitched towards the right side of his face to the mask that was not there. And yet Christine did not see the mangled flesh…it was a phenomenon that she could not grasp, but that attempted to consume her thoughts.

Erik mistook the surprise that etched itself upon her features for fear, and he seemed to draw in on himself, his eyes growing cold and hard.

"Oh, I see. Well, I do have that effect on people…"

A slender finger upon his lips ceased all other words that hung upon his tongue. Dimly Christine noticed it was her finger, and she had not remembered deciding to move so close to him.

She also didn't remember deciding to touch his face, tracing her fingers lightly along the right side of it in awe. For a fleeting moment her confused mind debated rushing to the mirror and fixing her hair in an attempt to distance herself from the captivating man before her. It was too late now to pull back, though, so she allowed her fingers to wander at their leisure, ghosting across his high cheekbones to his jaw line and down to his chin. In her deep concentration and pondering of the aesthetic miracle before her, she did not notice that Erik closed his eyes slightly and leaned into her stroking palm like a large cat.

_What is this? Could I be dreaming? No…he's here, right before me. How many times had he prayed for this without an answer before he ceased believing in a God that remained deaf to his pleas? Why is his wish granted now?_

And suddenly, Christine remembered a night not so long ago, although it felt like another lifetime, when a distraught man had laid his immense and tragic love at her feet and begged for her acceptance…

"_I've invented a mask that makes me look like an ordinary man. People won't even turn to look at me."_

Her eyes found the hint of a seam that indicated the presence of the mask. Christine's eyes filled with tears and she let her hand fall limply. Believing he sensed the reason for her sudden darkness of spirits, Erik took her hand in his two gloved hands and brought it to his chest.

"Oh, Christine," came his whispered voice, unshed tears brightening his eyes. "This is as close as I will ever come to true beauty. Just a shallow imitation, I know, and the curse still lurks beneath it…but you won't have to be burdened to look upon my ugliness anymore. I can be a _normal_ man, for _you_, if only by a façade…"

Little did he know that this façade was the reason Christine cried for him; not because of his ever-present "ugliness" as he thought, but because he could never be himself and find satisfaction in life. What a blessing it would have been if God had indeed given Erik the means to accept himself through the miracle Christine had suspected

But sometimes the point of life is to do without blessings – to struggle and to suffer, all to savor the taste of hard-won victory in the end. All she could do was pray that Erik would understand this one day. Perhaps, somehow, she could show him.

One day…

XXXXXXXXXX

"How do you like it?"

Antoinette twirled prettily before Raoul, the pink silk skirts of her dress whispering audibly even among the chatter of the Opera patrons waiting for the beginning of the performance. Raoul watched the charming girl with a beaming smile before taking her gloved hand and kissing it.

"I must admit, you are the most stunning woman in the entire opera," he said with an admiring sigh.

Pretending to pout as she had seen other girls do, Antoinette stuck her full lower lip out and whined, "Just the opera? Not all of Paris?"

Raoul blinked in surprise, but it proved too difficult for the young woman to keep up the act, and she dissolved into laughter.

"Sorry. It hurts to even pretend to be that flirtatiously shallow," she admitted with a grimace.

Noticing that her antics did not entice even a small chuckle from the young man before her, she tilted her head and studied him. His hand nervously fiddled with the watch in his pocket, and every once in a while his eyes flickered ever-so-briefly toward the entrance to the Opera.

"Waiting for someone?" Antoinette guessed aloud.

Appearing quite shaken and embarrassed at being caught in his unusual behavior, Raoul swiftly blushed and fixed a grin upon his face. "Ah, no. Not precisely. Just wondering who will attend the first production of _Faust_ since the days of the Opera Ghost."

His tone suggested that he found mirth in the subject, but his eyes remained icy as they warily eyed the elaborately gilded doors once more. Idly Antoinette wondered whether he in fact believed the singular happenings of mere months ago in the Opera could be attributed to a pesky ghoul. Deciding the best course of action was to do her best to preoccupy the handsome young man before her, Antoinette impulsively took his hand in her little gloved fingers.

His eyes reluctantly moved from the doors and onto hers. The crystal blue pools glittered up at him cheerfully, but her lips held a somber set to them. She hoped he could understand that she was worried for him. With the gossip floating around the room – she did not mind this, in fact, it made being with Raoul de Chagny all the more interesting – she hoped it had not finally affected his pride.

"Who cares about who comes to the performance? Odds are that they will be overly dressed and dull, and _that_, my friend, is an irritating combination." A few patrons who had encroached upon their chatting space snorted or scoffed at this comment audibly. Antoinette continued, undaunted.

"Whoever wants to come, let them come! It would not matter to me a trifle if the very Phantom of the Opera appeared through those doors!"

She laughed at her own lightness of topic and directed Raoul across the room to a corner less occupied by the overly dressed and dull patrons she so loathed.

Raoul, however, did not laugh.

Visibly blanching, his eyes once more found themselves upon the towering doors.

XXXXXXX

Christine was, quite frankly, amazed.

The journey through the winding tunnels below the Opera had been long, chilly, and dark. However, Erik had allowed her to make it without the obstruction of a blindfold. Fully expecting this, Christine had wondered why he neglected to obscure her vision before pressing the secret releases to the hidden doors and revealing the way to the surface. Her mind had been buzzing with confusion; had he simply thought she could not remember her way if she tried to escape, or did he think she would not wish to escape at all?

The way he had held her small hand firmly in his, did not attempt to place himself in way of her view of the levers and releases, and looked back ever so often to inquire of her wellbeing hinted that was confident in her willingness to stay with him. It seemed there was no doubt in his mind that she would try to use the knowledge of the tunnels he offered to later leave their home; the frightening fact was that she did not believe she would, herself.

When the long journey ended, they found themselves facing the back of the mirror in her old dressing room. Erik stopped dead in his tracks, and a low rumbling noise began deep in his chest. It took Christine a moment to realize it was a growl of disgust. She leaned around him to ascertain what caused the reaction.

The sight before her eyes was unfamiliar and alien. She had never looked upon her own room from this side of the looking glass; it had always been Erik's vantage point in the days when the Angel of Music lived and sang within her young mind. She felt oddly outside her own body, as if she looked through someone else's eyes. To look upon her bed, nightstand, and armoire from behind the glass would have been odd enough without the fact that most of those items were no longer present.

Her heart seemed to clench painfully in her chest as sorrow filled her momentarily. Most of the furniture had been removed, most likely to be given to other singers. A few chairs were covered with white sheets to keep the dust from settling on their delicate fabrics. A thin layer of oppressive dust had already covered the floor and any other surface it could cling to; it hung over the room like a grey shroud, only heightening the impression of neglect.

It pained Christine to see the place where she had lived for most of her life in such disarray. It was disrespectful in her eyes to defile such a pure memory of her days in the Opera.

She took a deep breath. _Did you seriously expect them to preserve your room? It is no longer your home, and the furniture can be put to better use elsewhere. _

With a small smile, she sincerely wished that some of her things were given to the less fortunate girls in the dormitories, or to a new and uprising diva.

Erik mumbled under his breath, and she distinctly caught the words "sacrilege" and "conniving vultures" before he pushed the mirror and it revolved on its pivot, opening the passageway into her room – or what once was her room.

Christine daintily lifted her skirts a few inches and stepped into the room, the think layer of dust muffling the click of her heels and sending glittering motes to float lazily in the air.

"Come now, Erik. It is simply a room. I'll never use it again, anyway," she assured him, her spirit soaring once more as she eagerly thought of her location.

She was in the Opera once more. Above ground, in the light, with those she loved and missed painfully mere rooms away from where she now stood. It made her heart leap in her chest, a broad smile gracing her face.

Brightened slightly by her smile, Erik followed her and came to stand beside her, nervously tugging at is gloves as he hesitantly eyed the door to the hallway.

Fixing him with a grin, Christine tilted her head. "Getting cold feet once we've already come so far?" she joked lightly.

His hand twitched in the direction of his face before she caught it in her two small hands. Golden eyes gazed at her, and she thought she could discern fear hidden behind them.

Stroking his hand gently, Christine assured him softly, "They won't recognize you. They won't stare. They won't see anything but you tonight."

His lips were pressed together in a thin white line. When he did not respond, she added, without thinking, "I'll be right there, Erik…I won't leave you."

As the words left her mouth, she blushed lightly. _What am I saying?_ _He must think me insane…or love struck. _Either prospect did not appeal to her…not when she was so unsure of his feelings for her and her own feelings for him.

The light pressure on her hand surprised her. She looked up at the striking amber eyes in the flawless mask; one corner of his lips quirked up in a wordless smile and he squeezed her hand once more before opening the door and plunging into the Paris Opera House: a place laced with bittersweet memories.

XXXXXXXXX

Music floated upon the air in the cavernous expanse, the acoustics of the room noticeable in the resonating echo that followed each note. It was a living thing, the music…its heartbeat, its sighs audible in the notes that flowed to his waiting ears.

If he closed his eyes, let the music wash over him, and ignored the fact that the second violinist was painfully off tune, Erik could almost feel at home. Or as close to home as he ever could be.

The familiar scents of the Paris Opera House filled his nostrils, from the burning oil in the lamps, the fragrant flowers that decorated the tables, to the lingering fragrance of cologne and perfume from the patrons. The natural coolness of the massive stone constructions was pleasantly counterbalanced by the warm air from the furnaces that was vented to the upper levels. His perpetually cold flesh absorbed some of the heat, giving him an almost healthy skin tone. Almost. One can only look so alive when one lives underground like a mole.

There were, however, a few differences in his memories of the Opera and now.

Christine Daae, the unattainable beauty he had only been able to hope for in secret, was here. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, but its warm weight filled him with more heat than the furnaces could ever manage. They walked amongst the other opera patrons, smiling to each other and chatting intimately. _Just like the other couples. Just like a normal woman with a normal man._ It was like a dream…but no dream could make his heart pound as fiercely as it did now.

And, amazingly, there was no screaming, no spitting on his horrid face, no staring. Well, that would be incorrect to state there was no staring. There were plenty of eyes upon him, he could feel it, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Surprisingly, the eyes were predominately those of women. Erik's golden orbs frantically tried to catch them in the act, but every time he looked upon an offending young woman, she simply blushed, giggled, and chattered madly with her friends.

To be honest, it was completely unnerving. Erik didn't have the faintest idea of what to make of it.

Deciding it would be best to question a woman in the strange workings of the fairer sex, Erik leaned closer to Christine and muttered from the corner of his mouth, "What's going on?"

Christine tilted her head, obviously confused.

Blushing lightly at having to explain himself, and lacking the words to do so, Erik mumbled, "These twittering women. Why do they keep staring at me?" Unconsciously he touched the side of his face, reassuring himself that his mask was still obscuring his deformity.

A pretty young blonde girl caught sight of Erik as he and Christine passed by. She stared openly, and the muscles of Erik's arm stiffened beneath Christine's grasp. He turned to catch the girl's eyes, to no avail. She blushed, grinned toothily, and promptly ran off to converse with someone across the room. Christine was watching.

"There. You see?" Erik said, uneasiness darkening his tone. His eyebrows were knitted together in obvious distress.

"Poor, poor Erik," Christine said with a pretty laugh. "Totally unaware of the ways of women…but if you want my opinion, I believe you should smile."

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, doubted he had ever heard anything more ridiculous in his life. He stated so.

"Aw, come now. You asked for my opinion," Christine chuckled, smiling at a passing patron, who bowed before walking off.

_Well, that's pointless. What can smiling accomplish? Unless I have something in my teeth, I rather doubt that will scare wandering eyes away. _He grumbled under his breath for a few moments.

Curiosity got the better of him, however, and the next girl whose eyes rested on him for too long found herself greeted with a hesitant, but dashing, smile.

Erik's eyes widened in shock as the young brunette blushed even deeper, her face beet red as she gasped, placing a pale hand on her parted lips. Slowly she came to her senses, and returned his smile with an enchanting and coy grin – although her cheeks remained their rosy hue. Gathering herself and fanning her face with a lacy fan, the girl determinedly advanced upon Erik, closing the distance between them rapidly.

Realization dawned upon the poor man, and his epiphany led to frenzied thoughts. _Could it be…? To make her blush…_

Erik doubted he had ever experienced the fright of the prey in the face of the predator before. It was unsettling; he much preferred to be the one doing the pursuing. A cold sweat began on his brow, and his keen eyes roamed the room.

Frantically he attempted to find a way away from the woman, but unfortunately he and Christine were amidst a gaggle of talking gentlemen and ladies who showed no desire to clear a path.

_Damn that woman for telling me to smile! She KNEW it would only encourage her...taking advantage of my naivety!_

It seemed Christine could judge his thoughts by the expression of his face. Perhaps deciding she had had enough fun, Christine took Erik's hand in hers. Christine shot a pointed look at the woman who determinedly closed the distance between herself and her object of interest; it stopped the young woman in her tracks. Hastily taking a wineglass from a server, she changed her course and moved to another group of young men, the disappointment clear in her expression.

Seeing an opening in the crowd that Erik had missed, Christine gently tugged on his hand, silently asking him to follow her.

Still grumbling, Erik consented and allowed Christine to lead him into a relatively empty corner of the room. There they could have a bit of privacy, as they were halfway obscured by a statue. They were, however, near the large gilded entryway, and Erik spared it a glance before turning to Christine once more.

"You little _vixen_!" Erik hissed quietly, "you …you _knew_."

A slender finger placed upon his lips stopped his words; Christine smiled up at him with that completely mischievous and adorable glint in her chocolate eyes…

_ADORABLE? Are you certain you kicked the habit? Your mind certainly seems morphine-numbed…_

He clenched his jaw, pointedly ignoring the mocking voice in his head.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Erik demanded, his lips tingling slightly as they brushed her finger.

Christine's eyes softened as a heartrending smile graced her lips. His heart skipping a beat, Erik caught his breath, feeling suddenly guilty. He hoped she had not taken his words for truthful anger…

"Thank you, Erik."

He stared dumbly at her for a few seconds. Slowly he blinked a few times, digesting what she had said. _Thank you? For what, calling her a vixen? _He had to restrain himself so he would not laugh aloud at his odd thoughts.

Moving to lean his back against the wall, Erik observed Christine before tilting his head and fixing his gleaming eyes on hers.

"…Christine-" he began, but her upraised hand stopped him once more. Idly he wondered when he had decided to allow Christine to control his actions. He concluded that, in one way or another, it was since he first heard her sing.

"Please…let me finish…" she took a deep breath, fiddling with the long gloves on her hands as Erik waited patiently – or as patiently as was possible for Erik.

"What I meant was…thank you for taking me here." She gestured around her with a sweep of her arm. "I've forgotten how much I missed this place: the days in the ballet, practicing with the chorus, singing before such a massive audience…of course, I've been here since" a pause where she cleared her throat, "_then_, but that was only for a moment, before coming to find you. I did not see the life that comes to the Opera once more with the performance of a production."

She sighed contentedly before continuing.

"Erik, I just wanted you to know that I…well, I…" she began to blush, and Erik looked at her in awe as she took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her bosom, sending what felt like electricity through his veins. Christine bit her lip, as was her habit when nervous, and brought her delicate eyebrows together in thought.

_Can it be? Can it be that she…perhaps…?_

For a moment Erik dared to believe that this one time, when she was released back into the world of the living with a blessedly unmarred man at her side, she might finally return the burning passion that Erik harbored for her. He could feel Christine's racing heart beneath the hand that he could not bear to remove from her hands at her breast – propriety be damned. Erik's own heart had no trouble in keeping pace with the young woman's before him.

As Christine spoke once more, it seemed that the rest of the room's noise was drowned out in the delicate whisper that came from her perfect lips. The light from the gas lamps that lent a rosy hue to her already reddened cheeks and the distressed heaving of her chest threatened to consume Erik.

"I just wanted to let you know that…over the time I've spent with you…I've found myself beginning to have fee-"

Suddenly and swiftly, Erik slid his hand out from between Christine's and clenched both her shoulders tightly. The shock of his movement and the strength of his grip made Christine wince and yelp in pain.

"Erik…w-what's-" She began tremulously, but the irate and murderous look in Erik's eyes terrified her into silence.

Lightning seemed to dance in his hard amber eyes, which were fixed on a location over Christine's shoulders. She turned to try to see, but his iron fingers closed on her chin, keeping her from moving her head. Still he would not meet her eyes.

"Erik…look at me…you're frightening me…" Christine said in a half-sob.

"Christine. Leave. _Now_."

The note of steel in his normally velvety voice sent shivers of fear down Christine's spine.

She did not have to be told twice.

* * *

**Yes, FINALLY...I get to actually put my evil idea into motion. It took a bit of setting up, but I wanted everything just right so that I could throw a wrench in it. And now we have everyone back at the Opera, drawn together once more. It gives me chills bwah haha!**

**I saw POTO at the theater the other day, and wow. It really rekindled my love for the original story. Btw, my apologies for the late update. Stressful weeks, but my dad was served the night that the rest of my family was out watching POTO, so now we at least don't have to deal with his verbal abuse. It helps stress levels to not be told that your mother is a bitch and that you're stupid every day, so hopefully I can get back to writing instead of worrying. Anyway, I have two extra days this weekend (we don't have to go back until Wednesday) so hopefully I can get to write more! Thanks for waiting, and I hope I can get the next chapter up sooner...  
**


	21. Return of the Rosy Hours

**Well, here it is! I can't be sure that everyone will love this chapter, but it had to be done. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter; and for those of you who didn't, it really does help me to update faster when I know people are enjoying the story (hinthint). Lots of reviews for the last chapter! Made me very happy...thank you! I always like to know what you readers want more of, so I can include that in my story. Reviews also help to motivate me to improve my writing!**

**To my lovely reviewers: **

**Mianne: **Of course Erik's the little hottie, haha! I remembered reading about that mask, and I thought "hey, wouldn't it be cool if…". Thanks for the review; you certainly read it quickly!  
**Dove of Night: **Yes, for some reason that chapter turned out quite cheerful towards the end. "Erik's –twitchtackleclingGOAWAY- reaction"…wonderful way to put it; that made my day!  
**Pertie: **Ah, how I wish that perfect world could be real for Erik and Christine. Of course Raoul has to come in and destroy everything, though. You're so sweet; thanks for the kind words. I'm doing much better now, and hoping to reflect some of that in my quality of writing! Thanks for the review!  
**Poisoned Allure: **Thanks! Glad you enjoyed the last chapter. I really had fun with it toward the end, and this chapter was really fun to write too. Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**Naomipoe: **My best chapter ever? Wow, thanks! I did have to put in a cliffie…I've been keeping those out of my writing for a while. You're too sweet to me; I appreciate your concern, but I also know people have it much worse than I do, so please don't worry too much. I'm too contrary and stubborn to believe what my father tells me; it just bothers me because he verbally abuses my family, and I am fiercely loyal to my family. Things are changing already, though (sigh of relief) Once more, thank you for the kind words and thoughts, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!  
**Twinkle22: **Aww, thanks! I agree; I'd love to see and/or be in POTO every day (sighs happily). I tried to get this update up quicker than usual…hope you didn't suffer too much haha. Thanks for the review!  
**Clever Lass: **I'm glad someone else is excited about the "any other man" mask! I wanted to include it so badly, and yet not make it one of those "And presto! Erik was handsome and Christine loved him forever and ever the end" things. They're still going to have their problems, and yes, mostly in the form of Raoul. "Mood killer" is an understatement, but he's an important part of the story. He keeps things happening, haha. Thanks for the compliments and the review!  
**Phantomann: **Haha, is the cliffie getting to yah? I'm feeling pretty inspired, but you judge for yourself. I know, I was mean in not letting Christine tell her feelings…but my life's just all about bad timing (grin) so I figure I'd put a bit of that frustration in here. Thanks for the review!  
**PhantomPluter:** Of COURSE I have an evil plan. Did you ever doubt me? (evil grin) Oh, I want to see the show again, too! It's so unfair that they already stopped showing it (sigh). Thanks for the review and the "pokepokepoke :)" to get me writing haha!  
**Mominator: **Alas, I am a wicked author…of course it's Raoul (evil grin)! He always comes along to confuse Christine again once she's finally worked her emotions out. Thank you kindly for the compliments on my story; it's a joy to write, and even more so when I know people enjoy it. Thanks for the review!  
**Tex110: **(rushes to write more) I certainly don't want to make you suffer…too much! Glad to know you're caught up in it all!  
**Faust: **Wow, thanks! I'm overjoyed that you liked it. Did I get some of the intensity back in there? Haha, I can never really tell until I read my chapters again. I'm glad you got the mental visuals from the mirror scene; I could really see that one in my mind, myself. Thanks for the review!  
**Katiebabs: **Better than Desperate Housewives? Don't let too many other people hear that; I'll get stoned to death haha! I'm thrilled that you're so into the storyline. Getting reviews like yours really make me want to write more! Thanks!  
**Operatic: **Don't feel bad for laughing…I laughed myself when I read that part over again. Sometimes you just gotta break up the drama with a bit of a laugh! I'm glad someone else found humor in it; I've always thought Erik would have a bit of dry wit to him. Thanks for the review!  
**LastBreath: **I know; I just love to make the readers suffer. Thanks for understanding, and thanks for the review!  
**I am there inside: **Wow, thanks for the compliment! Glad to hear you're enjoying it…even the cliffhanger (in awe). Thanks for the review!  
**ElectricDragon: **Oh, no, ramble on! It just serves to inflate my ego! (jk) In all seriousness, thank you very much for the compliments! Glad you liked it, and thanks for the review!  
**Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: **Gotta love Eriky goodness. I will agree with you: he's attractive even with the deformity. You just can't compete with the Angel of Music/Opera Ghost! Thanks for the review!  
**Andra: **Goodness, you're making me blush! Gotta agree with you: Raoul ruins everything having to do with Erik and Christine (sigh). Hmm, I don't recall the page where it mentions the mask, but I do know that it's in the Persian's story…perhaps when he and Raoul are trapped in the torture chamber? Ah well, it's there somewhere lol. Thanks for the kind words and the review!  
**All That Remains: **(echoing laughter of EVIL) BECAUSE I CAN! BWAH HAHA! Ahem. Sorry.  
**Kagome1514: **Glad you liked it! Hmm, I don't exactly know where Christine can go where she can't be recognized…perhaps the dark depths of the Congo? But the important thing is that she's "dead"…and not many people are quick to admit they can see the dead. Unless you count that kid on the Sixth Sense. I'M FINALLY CAUGHT UP ON LOM! (happy sigh) Thanks for the review!  
**TheatreAngel: **(offers you a tissue) Aww, please don't cry…ten to one you'll hate me for what I do in this chapter anyways haha. Thank you very much for the compliment, though!  
**Cookies-will-invade: **Thanks! I'm glad you found a way out of that situation, even if you didn't move that far. My dad only moved a few minutes away…he's living with my aunt. God bless her lol. Thanks for the kind words and the review!  
**TheAngelCried: **Yay! I'm still so excited that you finally got registered! (It's odd speaking like this…almost like talking about pedigree dogs or something) Ahem, anyways! I understand what you meant; yes, not knowing Erik had a mask like that did lead Christine to believe it was some manner of miracle. Poor, naïve little churchgoing Christine lol. Yes, your comment on modern wording makes sense…I'm just hopeless haha. Chalk it up to not having the makings of a real author, which is why I'm content to idle away the hours with my little story. But hey, it could be worse. Christine: "Oh my gawd, Erik! Your face is, like, totally hott now!" Erik: "Word."……I think I just made myself cry. Thanks for the review!  
**UndermyAngelofMusic'swing: **Why thank you! I rather enjoyed writing the frightened Erik. How disturbing would that be for a man who had always been scorned, spat upon, and called a monster? Luckily he had enough composure to not run screaming lol. My evil plans are wonderful in my mind, but you'll have to see if you like it or not…Thank you for your patience with me, and thanks for the review! OH! Yes, the production! The Phantom was Gary Mauer, Christine was Marie Danvers, and Raoul was Michael Shawn Lewis. There were, of course, more people, but hey, those are the only ones that matter (jk).  
**Final-Threshold: **Yes. Erik does have uncontrollable emoticons. He is, in fact, emoticon bipolar. :-D… :-(… :-)…. :-D…:-( Sorry, couldn't help myself lol. You have truly made my night! Thanks for the review and the laugh!  
**Ladystrider77: **Hey now, wrenches happen to be my favorite tool besides screwdrivers, which are convenient to both fix my rickety desk and stab people in the eye. You should know things can never be that splendid for Erik and Christine. The conflict makes the sweet moments all the more tender (evil grin) That and I just like to make things difficult. Thanks for the kind words and the review!  
**Phantomgirl4life: **Thanks! (grin) I always love to get encouraging reviews…I hope you'll continue to read and review my story as long as you don't hate me forever for what I do in this chapter…(nervous laughter)  
**Lauren: **Aww, why would I reply to everyone else's review and then not comment on yours? I appreciate each and every review I receive; you really have no idea how much it motivates me to write my best. I figure if you take the time to review, I can take the time to respond to it. I'm glad you're enjoying the story thus far, and I hope you aren't disappointed with the things to come. Thanks for the review!  
**TwistedeverywayforErik: **(points) Erik told me to! Really though, I just missed the fun of cliffies. I used to employ them a lot in the earlier chapters. I know, I'm mean like that. Glad you liked the chapter, though! Thanks for the review!  
**Kainaku Hotaru: **(gasps) How did you know I wanted muffins! I kid you not, I was just craving one when I read your review haha! Wow, I'm elated that you like my little tale…and that your friend recommended it is also flattering. Thank you very much for taking the time to read and review; I really appreciate hearing that you enjoy it!  
**PhantomsHeart: **Go seniors! At least my mom hasn't hit the Nazi stage…but it's too early in the game to assign roles as of yet lol. Best of luck on getting out of the house; I really look forward to it as well (sigh). And GO SEXY ERIK….yes, you guessed the Raoul thing; who else would it be? He just has to ruin everything, and poor Erik has a bad time in this chapter as well…Thanks for the review!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Return of the Rosy Hours**

Anger coursed through his veins, making Erik feel lightheaded and almost dizzy. The roar of blood rushing in his ears drowned out anything but the insistent thudding of his heart. Long fingers itching, he reached for the Punjab lasso that regularly resided around his waist beneath his cloak. Its comforting weight was absent; considering cloaks were taken at the doors of the Opera, he had neglected to wear one, thus eliminating the hiding place for the deadly coil of rope. Mentally he cursed himself a thousand-fold for his error.

Never before had he found himself so greatly yearning for the cold-blooded murder of a single man.

It did not matter in the least that he was surrounded by scores of opera patrons – women among them. It did not matter that he was weaponless. It did not matter that the result of his actions would likely lead to his capture and execution.

Raoul de Chagny had to die.

The insipid man had the audacity to show his feminine face before Parisian society once more. He did not have the decency to stay properly insane, muttering nonsense in the shadows – his appropriate station in life. In fact, he did not look even slightly unhinged. Dimly Erik wondered how much it would take to plunge the man into insanity; he _had_ experienced an encounter with a ghost and then been informed of his fiancée's "death". Spectral meetings aside, the loss of Christine would be enough to send any rational man over the edge.

And then he saw her. A charming, smiling blonde on the damned vicomte's arm, wearing an immodestly low cut dress; she laughed at some joke of his and leaned intimately onto his shoulder.

Erik's blood boiled and the hair on the back of his neck rose as he growled deep in his chest.

_WHAT! How DARE he…that unfaithful BASTARD! How long did it take him to move on after Christine's death? An hour? Maybe two? He will make no such mistake again; he will NOT dishonor Christine's memory by running off with a common whore!_

And, like the vengeful angel that he was, Erik found himself swooping down upon the unsuspecting pair near him, who remained blissfully unaware of their impending doom as they laughed and flirted with each other.

A portly man dressed in a suit that was apparently two sizes too small walked in Erik's path. Erik shouldered him aside roughly as if he was not there, sending the man reeling and his spectacles clattering to the floor.

"Well, of all the nerve!" the man bellowed, but to no avail. Erik neither stopped to retrieve the man's glasses nor to apologize. He was bent on fulfilling his purpose, and no mortal obstruction would keep him from it.

Only God, if He could be bothered to concern himself with the fate of His creations, could save Raoul de Chagny now.

XXXXXXX

_What rotten timing! Is God against me telling Erik my feelings?_

Christine chewed solemnly on a fingernail, walking back to her dressing room and desperately trying to refrain from rushing back to Erik's side. Her heart thundered, protesting the excitement it had just experienced only to be followed by such a disappointment.

She needed to tell him…it was important.

Christine had finally come to the conclusion that she did in fact hold Erik in a special place in her heart; she had been afraid to admit it before she knew he felt for her in the same manner, but Christine knew she could wait no longer. Erik was a stubborn man, used to concealing his deepest and most passionate emotions as easily as he hid his face.

Erik had learned the need for such secrecy through experience. He had been careless enough – no, trusting enough – to profess his love for her once before. How had she repaid him? By scorning him and rushing off into the arms of her childhood love.

Then, she had been frightened by the immense passion and whirlwind of emotions that was Erik. His devotion had startled the young girl, who had never before encountered such a fierce love. Her fear only served to lead her into the arms of Raoul – a man who offered her a calmer, tamer affection with no threat to her Christian upbringing. Raoul had offered Christine a way to forget the way in which Erik could so unknowingly entrance and captivate her, both body and soul. Unlike Raoul, Erik had posed quite a threat; the feelings she had felt blossoming for him were in no way those of a good Christian…

Erik had been wounded once, and he would not be so careless again. If revealing his emotions unbidden only led to pain, Christine was certain he would never again utter a word of love without her consent.

And consent would be given. Although he had deceived her and spirited her off to his sanctuary from the cruelties of the world, Christine could tell he had no other option in his mind. Raised largely by himself, he had never learned to restrain himself from what he desired for long. The anger she had at first kindled for Erik's brash actions was slowly eased by his subtle kindnesses; Erik, the man who had once instilled fear in her very soul, was now the balm that soothed her heartache. She found herself increasingly making excuses to simply be in the same room that he occupied, just to be near him.

Of course, Christine was rather certain Erik knew nothing of this. Myriad emotions waged war in her weary mind; love, pride, modesty, fear – all fought to seize control of her actions.

But now, when his face had mirrored the beauty within, when he had been thoughtful and kind enough to offer her the world she once knew, Christine longed to be open with him. She was not created to hide her emotions like Erik. Besides, what harm could come of it? He cared for her much more than Raoul, her previous love, who had forsaken and abandoned her.

Erik would continue to care for her, and in return, she could care for him. Modesty aside, she had already seen the change she had worked in him. He slept more regularly, fading the dark circles that seemed to have taken permanent residence about his eyes. He ate and drank more, although she still had to hound him to do so, but even that nourishment helped to flesh out his frame, returning the lean muscles to his body. After she had seen to his immediate needs, she could then attempt to heal the deep emotional wounds he quietly nursed every day of his life.

It would be a difficult challenge, but one she was more than willing to undertake for her Angel of Music…who was currently ensnared in some happening that clearly angered or frightened him enough for him to send her away.

Finding herself facing her reflection in the mirror that would lead her back to his lair, Christine gazed at herself for a moment. The determination that was etched on her pretty face, the stubborn set of her full lips, and the purpose in her shining brown eyes confronted her cowardly actions.

_Why am I running? If Erik loves me, as he has said in the past, then he must understand that I worry for him…_

Emboldened by her need to tell Erik of her feelings for him while she still had the nerve and urged forward by her curiosity, Christine's feet found their way away from the mirror and back towards the entrance hall, drawn by an invisible force to Erik's side.

It was mere moments before she once more found herself pushing through the throng of patrons, murmuring polite words to excuse her jostling and bumping of the ladies and gentlemen. The chattering and music bombarded her ears and the people in the room shifted and moved around her, making it difficult to keep her bearings.

Finally Christine stumbled out into a clearing in the crowd. She took a few deep breaths; having always been the slightest bit claustrophobic, Christine was more than relieved to be able to have room to breathe the lightly scented air. Her eyes sought the corner where she had last seen Erik. She found his tall, lean frame easily amongst the moving crowd, but he was walking away. Chocolate eyes following his path, Christine saw it. Her heart stopped momentarily, and then beat a hundred times faster to make up for it.

Golden hair shining in the lamplight, grinning handsomely, and blue eyes twinkling merrily, Raoul de Chagny stood brightly amongst the other men in the room, making them pale in comparison with his cheerfulness. Well could Christine recall the sound of his laughter, and the way his smile had once lit a fire in her heart.

Once.

Suddenly, slender fingers snaked into his strong hands. A girl – a young woman – who could not have been much older than Christine herself peeked coyly up at Raoul, her blonde curls bouncing prettily as she threw her head back and laughed along with Christine's fiancé.

Or rather, her ex-fiancé.

A sour feeling settled in Christine's stomach…jealousy mixed with anger, perhaps? She did not know, but she did not relish it. The corners of her lips turned down as she moved forward once more unconsciously.

And then it happened. Raoul's arms twined around the girl's waist, and slowly but surely their lips met.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as they held the kiss. Christine's stomach felt as if a bucket of ice had been tossed in it. The stinging heat of tears rose in Christine's eyes as her hand numbly came to her parted lips. _A kiss. Something denied to me, but given to this woman. Oh, Raoul…_

The cry of sorrow that was sobbed from her slender frame seemed to send time in a jumpstart forward. Things happened quickly, like flashes of lightning across the sky. Tears flowed heavily from eyes that she could not remove from the heart wrenching sight. Erik stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heel to face Christine with a look of surprised horror on his face. Raoul and the girl parted; the vicomte's eyes met Christine's and he called out to her, eyes wide and eyebrows arching upwards.

"Christine?"

The word set her body into motion, sending her legs running as fast as they could towards the only place of refuge she knew in the Paris Opera House: her dressing room. Patrons either moved swiftly from her path or were knocked about as the distraught young woman collided with them, stumbled, and continued to flee. Christine could hear the pounding of rapid footsteps behind her as someone gave pursuit. She did not wish to discover to whom the footsteps belonged.

Sobs tore at her throat, making breathing difficult. Tears blurred her vision; she blinked them away angrily. _How COULD he?_

Christine tripped on the hem of her skirts, plunging to the floor, her fall accompanied by the sound of ripping fabric. A gash almost as long as her calf traveled up the side of the dress, but she didn't care. She lurched to her feet once more, wincing at her skinned knee and what she believed might be a twisted ankle. The pain was promptly ignored, however, in light of the swiftly approaching footsteps that pounded after her. She ran once more, careful to lift her skirts so they would not make her stumble again.

Her lungs burned; crying and running at the same time took more air than she had thought, and much more than her labored breathing could supply her with. An odd feeling of foggy lightheadedness settled over her, but she did not stop until she reached the familiar scenery of her vacated room, and only then to press the hidden release that would turn the mirror.

_Am I still followed? _She could no longer discern the difference between the sound of her pursuer and the pounding of her own heart in her ears. She did not wait to find out.

The moment the mirror opened wide enough for her to slip through, Christine did so, plunging herself into the cool darkness of the tunnel. The gloom hid her tears and offered some feeling of comfort, but it proved to hinder her passage as well. She never had liked the dark, but she stumbled on, determined to put as much distance between herself and the horrid occurrence she had just witnessed.

Strong hands closed about her shoulders, turning her to face a shadowy silhouette in the darkness. Christine cried out and fought back, trying to pull away. Her back hit the cold brick of the wall. She tried to bolt forward and twist from her captor's grip, but the hands firmly and tenaciously pressed her against the wall, cutting off any means of escape.

Christine yelled out anything, from curses to half-coherent words of pain and sorrow. A masculine voice rose over her exclamations, but she paid it no heed. She did not need a lecture, she did not need to be confined. Christine longed to be set free, to return to the depths of the earth and nurse the gaping wound that her onetime love had ripped in her bleeding heart.

"No, NO! Let me go! Just let me be!" Christine wailed, completely overcome with grief and rage.

But the strong hands did not relinquish their grip. Utterly frustrated and at her wits end, Christine lashed out, pummeling the unyielding body before her.

"I loved him," she sobbed, "I LOVED HIM!"

Suddenly Christine found herself roughly pulled into a tight embrace. After attempting to squirm from her pursuer's arms in her of fury and anguish, Christine finally gave up. She collapsed into the man's chest, clutched his shirt in her fist, and cried.

Her frantic gasps for breath brought her the scent of the night air, of soap, of spices…

Of Erik.

Realizing whose arms she was in, Christine sobbed even harder.

"E-Erik," she managed to choke out. "Why..wh-why..?"

"Shh," his deep voice calmed; Christine could feel each sound resonating in his chest. "It's all right. Oh, Christine… Don't cry…"

He continued to murmur comforting words in her ear, stroking her curled hair reverently. When her violent sobs finally weakened and she was reduced to only the odd sniffle and shuddering gasp, Erik pulled away slightly. The small bit of light that managed to penetrate the tunnel from the room without allowed Christine to see one side of Erik's face and his glowing golden eyes. From what she could see, his visage was etched with concern.

A stray tear trickled down her flushed cheek, burning a swift trail down to her chin.

"…_My heart hurts_."

Christine new it was vague, knew it was an odd statement, but she also knew Erik would understand. With a grim and shaky attempt at a smile, Erik cupped her cheeks in his palms and brushed her tears away gently with his thumbs.

"I know, Christine…. I know."

The compassion in his whispered words was touching, but did not entirely mask the bitter notes of his own pain. He trembled with restrained emotion. Somehow, Christine believed he longed to cry as well, and for the same reason: she had loved Raoul.

Instead, he slid a finger under her chin and used it to gently draw her closer to him. Erik brought his lips mere inches from hers, looking into her eyes almost timidly, as if asking for permission.

She did not protest; she had no words and no breath with which to say them. All she could do was silently pray her heart would not beat out of her poor chest.

His lips met hers tenderly, brushing them like the wings of a butterfly. Christine's eyelids fluttered shut, and her fingers slowly released the fabric of Erik's shirt and moved to rest lightly on his left cheek. She gasped a bit as he suddenly deepened the kiss, wrapping and arm about her waist and moving himself closer to her, pressing her gently against the wall…which was fortunate, because Christine rather doubted she would have been able to stand on her own. Her heart thundered in her chest; apparently Erik felt it and mistook it for fear; he broke the kiss and attempted to move away with a muttered half-apology, but found his movement arrested. Christine had once again twined her fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

With trembling fingers, Erik gently loosened Christine's small hands from his shirt, taking them in his own. His breathing hastened; his chest rose and fell noticeably as he took deeper breaths to calm himself, eyebrows drawn together and reflecting his inner turmoil.

"_Christine_," Erik breathed, speaking her name so reverently that it sent a shiver through her body. "I know you loved him…but…I need you to know…"

A strange voice rent the relative silence, booming along the dark passage and sending Christine's heart leaping into her throat.

"Release the girl, Erik."

XXXXXXX

Erik spun around, releasing Christine's hands as if burned. His keen eyes narrowed as he allowed them to adjust to the light that poured through the open mirror, casting a long black shadow down the hall toward the two. Although he desperately tried to discern the shape in the blinding light, the racing of his heart and the way his blood burned in his veins was testament enough to who the person before them was.

Erik crouched reflexively, like a cornered animal, and reached for the Punjab lasso that was not around his waist. Christine grasped the sleeve of his coat in her cold fingers and moved forward hesitantly.

"Erik…who is it?" She whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

His answer was to throw out a strong arm and halt Christine's movement. Moving himself firmly between the inquisitive young woman and the shadowy figure in the light, Erik gave up his desperate search for a weapon to defend himself.

_I may be unarmed, but I'm not defenseless. _

But although Erik was crouched, muscles taught like springs, prepared to defend against an attack, none came. It seemed the person was content with simply standing and watching them. _He knows I am not armed, otherwise he would not have announced his presence in such a cavalier manner. What restrains him now? Surely he is not afraid?_

Apparently the first move would be left to Erik. Drawing himself to his full and formidable height, Erik's voice echoed down the narrow passage, hushed but frigid enough to make Christine shiver and take a step back.

"You dare to confront me,_ daroga_?"

The word dripped with sarcasm, as if Erik equated the title with the word "cur". A seething anger filled Erik's veins, making his eyes flash dangerously in the light.

"Erik…let the girl go. She is not yours to have," the Persian demanded, almost pleadingly. The way in which he talked reminded Erik pointedly of the way in which one spoke to a small child, or to the mentally ill. Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, was neither, and it only served to fan the flames raging within him higher.

"**Do not presume to tell me what is mine!**" Erik's projected voice thundered throughout the passage, echoing back in a ghostly response of "mine, mine, mine."

He had begun to tremble with barely restrained anger, his fists clenching and unclenching as his mind raced. _I told him, I warned him…if he meddles in my affairs once more…I cannot be responsible for my actions…_

_Why must he always seek to crush my carefully-crafted dreams of happiness?_

Speaking clearly, so there could be no chance of a misunderstanding, Erik stated, "Daroga…I will give you _one last warning_: leave now. Never dabble your curious fingers in my affairs again."

Erik allowed his command to sink in before adding in a venomous whisper, "I will be more than delighted to sing your requiem mass."

He could hear the frightened gasp of Christine, who he could still sense behind him, her rapid breathing audible in the following silence.

The Persian waited, and his shadow seemed to shiver and shudder, appearing to be two shadows before returning to one. Erik dimly wondered what illusion this was before the daroga responded to Erik's threat with equal conviction.

"I cannot allow this to go on. You are living on borrowed happiness. Christine Daae's love is not yours to have, Erik, and I cannot allow you to steal it from Raoul de Chagny. I do not wish it, but if it is fate…I _will_ kill you."

"_You have made your choice_."

The mirror spun violently around, shutting off the source of light as Erik pressed the hidden release in the passage wall. Everyone was plunged into a suffocating darkness, and Christine cried out.

"Christine," Erik commanded, his voice steely and offering no space for disobedience, "Go back to the house. I will meet you there _shortly_." The sneer that etched his lips was unseen in the gloom, but audible in his words.

The swift pattering footsteps that followed confirmed Christine's acquiescence.

The rush of air past Erik's shoulder and the click of boots pounding after Christine were entirely unexpected. Erik did not even have time to spin on his heel or cry out.

The shadowy illusion Erik had lately witnessed had been no illusion at all, and when the knowledge dawned upon him, a snarl of pure fury ripped forth from deep within his chest. He made to follow, but was slammed roughly into the brick wall, stumbling to the floor with a hiss of pain.

As he collected himself and leaped to his feet, a small light appeared, illuminating both his face and the visage of the Persian. Nadir stood before him, lantern in hand, and an insufferably calm look on his swarthy face. His jade green eyes were hard, almost crystalline, as they fixed Erik with their penetrating gaze.

"It is his right to have her, Erik. Raoul de Chagny has her love; he is her fiancé."

At first Erik fought the urge to sidestep the Persian and hunt the boy down, dispatching the vicomte once and for all, but he was reluctant to leave any business unfinished.

He did not have to struggle for long, for the solution hit him. Erik's golden eyes narrowed as a predatory grin spread across his face.

Somehow Nadir retained his cool demeanor, but that did not entirely surprise Erik. The Persian had looked death in the face enough during the Rosy Hours to not tremble in fear before it.

"You forget, daroga. You are in _my_ playground now. Even if your damned vicomte finds Christine, he still has to find his way out…and I guarantee you, the only way he will discover is the way he came..."

Spreading his hands out dramatically to his sides and throwing his head back with a chilling laugh, the corners of Erik's lips curled upwards.

"_Right_ into my waiting arms."

"No, Erik," the ghost of a smile played upon the lips of the swarthy man, and his green eyes glinted before he cast the lantern aside. It clattered and skidded on the floor, the flame sputtering as it died. With nothing left to hold the darkness at bay, the shadows closed in once more.

"I did not neglect to take that into account," came Nadir's self-assured and bodiless voice.

A familiar metallic noise rang in the gloom, making Erik's heart clench momentarily. The sound of unsheathed steel…

Erik could not completely suppress images of the daroga's curved knife in action, flashing in the blood-red sun during the Rosy Hours…

But, then again, Erik himself had been death incarnate in the hours of Mazenderan. Perhaps it was time to once more instill fear in the overconfident Persian.

"Dueling an unarmed man, daroga? How noble; how honorable," Erik quipped dryly, trying to incite a response.

"There is no room for nobility and honor in a battle of life and death. You should know this--"

It only took Erik's trained ears a moment to locate the source of the daroga's voice, and only a second more to silently spring toward his foe, seeking to knock him to the ground, where he could easily dispatch him.

Somehow, at the last possible second, the Persian side-stepped Erik; the curved blade of his dagger sang viciously through the air. Erik managed to twist sufficiently to only catch the steel on his right arm.

He landed in a hushed crouch, moving quickly and noiselessly to another location so he would not be subject to further attack. The long gash burned, but was shallow enough to be nothing more than an annoyance.

_Luck_, Erik mused. There was no other explanation for the daroga's narrow evasion. Erik had been certain to use his prodigious abilities in stealth during his assault, and yet the man had somehow foreseen his actions. Glancing about, his golden eyes alighted on narrow cracks in the ceiling of the tunnel, allowing a small amount of light to diffuse a few inches downward from the upper floors. It was not enough, however, to discern anything in the gloom of the cellar. _Yes, luck._

_He will not experience such luck again._

Erik waited, his breathing shallow enough to remain unheard in the silence. Blood trickled warmly down his arm, but he ignored it. The daroga made no move and apparently schooled his breathing as well, for Erik could not pinpoint his location in the murky shadows. His muscles quivered in anticipation and adrenaline rushed through his system. He could not restrain a tight grin.

_How long has it been since I've played such a game of cat and mouse? How I've missed the sport…_

But waiting was undoubtedly his least favorite aspect of the game. Vaguely he wondered if the daroga could be led into revealing his position once more through pointed banter.

This, of course, would also reveal Erik's position. He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes as he tried to discover a solution to their deadly checkmate.

_Ah, of course…_

"Frightened…" He spoke in the daroga's left ear.

"…are we?" came Erik's echoing voice in the right.

Nadir clucked his tongue disapprovingly, "I know your tricks, magician."

_There! _Erik closed the distance, sliding in to take out the daroga's legs. He heard the whooshing noise of steel cleaving air and tried desperately to change his direction of momentum, scrambling unceremoniously out of the way. He snarled and winced as the blade bit into his side.

Once more Erik backed away silently, heart pounding and a scowl upon his unseen face. He did _not _relish retreating.

The blood steadily soaking the fabric of his shirt, vest, and coat on his left side was more than a little distracting, but the pain only served to feed his anger.

_How could he know!_

He dropped to one knee, pressing his hand to his side. He could feel the blood absorb into his white glove and gritted his teeth to restrain a hiss of frustration and pain.

_Think, Erik…think!_

It was true that the daroga was familiar with his hand to hand fighting style; Nadir Khan was in fact the one who had taught Erik the fundamentals of weaponless fighting when he had first come to the Persian court. But Erik had learned much in his travels, and he could undoubtedly overcome the man even if he had to contend with the curved dagger.

He had stealth, cunning, and ventriloquism in his favor…so how could the daroga anticipate his movements and counter so swiftly?

Suddenly it struck Erik, and he cursed himself a thousand times over for not realizing it sooner. For although Erik had technique and a sharp mind on his side, he also had something else the Persian did not possess…

Luminous eyes.

Although it contradicted Erik's every instinct that informed him it would be fatal to restrict his vision further in a struggle for his life, he took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. His heart protested, racing to the point of making it difficult to breathe. Taking deep and calming breaths through his nose, Erik steadied his shaking limbs and called forth once more to the daroga, throwing his voice to another location in the cellar.

"You promised me once, daroga, that you would never meddle in my affairs again. And now, I promise you…this is going to end badly for you. Very badly."

The menace in his voice made the hair stand up on the back of his own neck, for his tone rumbled with electricity like the dark clouds that hail a thunderstorm.

"If I may be so bold as to quote you, Erik, 'oaths are made for catching fools'."

Eyes tightly closed, Erik closed the distance between himself and the daroga, hoping against hope that it would not be his last hasty move. Deciding against anything fancy and time-consuming, Erik resorted to pure force.

His fist collided with the Persian's torso, knocking the air from his lungs with a choking cough. Mainly through luck, Erik brought his forearm up to meet the daroga's in time to block the man's swing of his knife. Grasping the Persian's wrist to keep his bearings in regards to the knife, Erik hooked his right foot around his foe's leg and forcefully wrenched his body to the ground.

Erik fell upon the man, pinning Nadir's free hand to the ground with his knee as he fought desperately to claim the knife with both hands. Nadir regained his breath by taking agonized short bursts of air through his nose, managing not to panic at his situation of breathlessness. If Erik had not been locked in battle with Nadir, he would have praised the man for his calm during the struggle. As it was, it only served to frustrate Erik.

The daroga had a tenacious grip upon the handle of his knife, and soon Erik grew aggravated with attempting to break his grip. He reared back, careful to keep the man's hands pinned, and brought his fist once more into the man's jaw with a resounding crack. Idly Erik wondered with a bloodthirsty smirk if he had dislocated it.

The Persian did not cry out, did not make a sound of protest.

Roughly seizing the man's chin in his hand, Erik leaned down close until he could feel the Persian's labored breathing on his face.

"You can make this easier on yourself, daroga. Release the knife, and I will be merciful. A quick strike, then nothing more. A relatively painless death, and more than I admit you deserve for challenging me. Am I not generous?"

Erik could not restrain a maniacal chuckle. His humor was quickly cast aside, and he leaned in once more, tightening his grip.

"But _mark my words_…If you make me waste precious time in killing you, I cannot promise it will be a swift death."

Taking a shuddering breath, the Persian responded in his icy tone, "You will not win, Erik. Raoul de Chagny will have Christine Daae, no matter what you presume to do with me."

Erik snarled and clenched his free fist, but decided against striking the man. Instead, he reached down and patted the side of the man's lean face, an unseen grin spreading across his visage as he spoke in a lighthearted voice.

"I do so hate to be contrary, daroga, but I beg to differ. For, after I dispose of you, I will certainly have ample time to make the vicomte suffer before he joins you in the afterlife."

"ERIK!"

The distant scream reverberated in the cellar and through the tunnels. Recognizing the voice, Erik released the Persian's jaw and turned slightly.

"_Christine_?" he whispered, confusion lacing his tone.

The moment in which Erik's confusion lasted was enough to seal his fate. One does not turn their back upon death and expect no rebuke.

In a fluid motion that displayed surprising strength, the Persian wrenched his arms free and powerfully drove his curved knife upward into Erik's abdomen.

Searing pain erupted in Erik's body, and he cried out in agony. Clutching the hilt of the knife, he folded over upon himself, his breathing coming in short and labored gasps that shot darts of pain through his entire frame.

Apparently Christine had heard his cry of pain, for she called forth more frantically than before, "ERIK! ERIK!"

The Persian roughly threw Erik's limp body away and rose to his feet, but Erik barely flinched. His mind was occupied elsewhere, namely on Christine. Her angelic voice contorted with grief made Erik's heart hurt…or was that the fact that it worked twice as hard as normal? Wet blood seeped from the wound and warmly snaked around his fingers. His extremities tingled slightly, like pins and needles.

Scuffling and muffled words of protest slowly drew nearer, until the light from a lantern peeked forth timidly from the gloom. As the shadows receded, Erik's increasingly foggy vision discerned two forms moving toward him.

Raoul de Chagny had a firm hold on both the lantern and Christine's wrist, resolutely dragging her along the cellar and toward the exit, the mirror. Christine writhed and struggled, but the young man paid her no heed.

"Raoul, Raoul! You're hurting me! Let go! ERIK!" Her frantic wailing tugged at Erik's soul.

He tried to stand, to go to Christine, to free her and brush away the tears that streamed down her cheeks like a torrential flood. But he could not. He lay upon the hard floor of the cellar, shivering in a growing pool of his own blood.

When the glowing halo of light finally reached him, making Erik squint and blink in pain as his dilated pupils refused to adjust, Christine's gasp echoed in the silence.

"**ERIK! No! NO!**," she howled, sobbing and falling to her knees beside him.

_Christine…don't cry…why are you crying, Christine? _

Erik's mind was enveloped in a fog; vaguely he wondered why he was lying on the floor, and why his body felt so cold.

Raoul de Chagny bent nimbly and drew Christine in his arms, lifting her from her feet.

"Nadir, is he…?"

Raoul looked with barely masked disgust downwards, meeting Erik's eyes. Erik tried to glare at the vicomte, but he could not keep the pompous boy's face in focus for long.

The Persian used his hand to crack his jaw back into place, working it slowly and painfully for a moment before responding with a wince, "No, he's alive. But not for long."

There was no triumph in his tone or his expressions; in fact, his green eyes held an unrestrained sorrow.

"Good. Let's go," Raoul said quickly, averting his eyes and blanching a bit.

Shifting Christine's distraught form in his arms, he headed off down the tunnel toward the mirror.

Nadir stood for a while above Erik, gazing down upon the broken man.

"Goodbye, Erik."

And then he, too, turned and disappeared down the tunnel, leaving Erik to be enveloped in shadows once more.

Christine's echoing sobs rang in Erik's ears until darkness closed upon him, seeping into his conscious and wrapping him in its warm mantle.

Erik knew no more.

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**Would this be considered a cliffhanger? (head tilt) Anyways, let me know what you think...let me hear from the angst and drama fans, and all you fluff fans can throw rocks at me. I've gotten rather good at dodging them...bwah haha. **

** By the way, I was pondering the other day (and yes, when I'm sick and at home I ponder a lot)...what exactly is the ratio of female fanfic readers to male readers? It seems like the female presence is predominant, but I can't be sure. For all I know, my story could be entirely read by females lol. Ah well, that was just the ponderation (is that a word?) of the night (after 1, woohoo).  
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	22. Pity

**Thank you for the overwhelming response to my last chapter and also for patience. I finished this chapter and spent a day debating whether to take the advice of a wise long-distance friend (you know who you are!) and not update until the entire story was finished...that way I would not find myself crippled by demands for another chapter to the point of killing my drive to write. It seemed a good idea to me, and still does. Perhaps when I begin another story I will do so, because it will undoubtedly take the stress down a few notches. But should I suddenly begin that method in the middle of this unfinished story? A few reviews and comments by kind and devoted readers was all it took to change my mind. Once more, you know who you are, and I thank you for the warm wishes and understanding. I will keep writing, when I get the chance naturally, and I will keep updating as soon as possible when the chapters are finished until this story is finished. No guarantees on the amount of time between chapters...you want a guarantee, buy a washing machine (grin). But this story WILL be finished! And again, thanks for waiting!  
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Chapter Twenty-Two: Pity**

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

A gentle thudding, muffled and yet echoing.

A natural clock marking the rhythm of life with the staccato consistency of a metronome.

A warmth, pervading and consuming, drowning out all other sensation, leaving nothing but the persistent drumming.

It was more a natural instinct than a conscious idea, but dimly his fogged mind floated to thoughts of beginnings. The comforting heat of a mother and the beat of her heart – the first sound in life, the sound which a child's tiny heart mimics for the rest of its life.

Comfort. The sensation was almost alien to him; what once was taken for granted in the earliest moments of existence could only now be grasped at. Any feeling of complete safety was normally beyond his reach, slipping through fingers that madly scrambled to clench it to his weary heart. Now, when it came to him without effort, he did not dare to breathe lest it take flight. After a few moments, when he was at last convinced this unearthly feeling would not leave him, he dared to allow the tension in his muscles to reside as the sensation overcame him.

Curled up upon himself, eyes closed and mind meandering numbly through the darkness that resided behind his eyelids, he would have been content to simply lie there, blissfully unaware of anything aside from the hypnotic thudding, satisfied with the momentary solace it brought his weary mind.

And he was very weary. The prospect of sleep was tempting, but the insistent thumping in his ears kept jarring him from the skittish embrace of dreams. He did not entirely mind, for he knew that it was only a matter of time before the noise would lull him to sleep, like the gentle lapping of ocean waves on the shore.

Slowly, creeping coldly upon the warm mist that enveloped his thoughts, a distant voice protested strongly in panic. The words were unintelligible but the meaning was clear. Something was amiss.

_What could be amiss? No more troubles, only comfort…only sleep._

Irritably he mentally shrugged the voice aside, his distaste for the way it chased the thoughts of nothingness from his mind irking the exhausted man. The rhythmic pounding and the unnatural, but welcome warmth eased his weary mind into a dreamlike state. He was disinclined to cast aside the promise of rest to dwell on an ill-founded sense of dread.

Besides, he was so tired.

Once more the mesmerizing thudding filled his waiting ears and he almost smiled in contentment.

The heartbeat. The first sound heard in life.

And the last.

Golden eyes snapped open and stared wildly into the darkness. The urgent panic that had paced patiently along the edges of his mind pounced upon him, gripping his heart with icy, brittle fingers. His breathing came in labored gasps as reality swept over him, filling his lungs with ice.

The heat he had basked in had disappeared. The heartbeat that had once filled his ears and brought him comfort now only pushed him further to terror. It was all a mere illusion to begin with: only his heart pounding desperately to compensate for loss of blood. Ironically, this only served to spill more of the precious ruby liquid. It pooled around him, steaming softly as it cooled in the frigid air of the subterranean cellar.

Erik was overcome with a sudden and persistent urge to violently empty the contents of his stomach. He likely would have done so if he in fact had something in his stomach and could have moved his numb limbs, which were stubbornly refusing to listen to his requests for motion.

_So much blood…_

Blood did not frighten him; he had seen more than his fair share in his lifetime, and had more than found peace with it. However, when it was his own blood spilling steadily from his own veins, Erik found it was a different matter entirely. Hazily his benumbed mind ventured morbid guesses as to how much of his lifeblood now stained the floor a charming crimson.

He suppressed a deranged cackle that threatened to burst from his pale and trembling lips. This was no time for delirium.

In a desperate attempt to dispel the deceiving mist from his tormented mind, Erik frantically searched for any solution to his plight. Never before had he so wracked his brain, but then again, death was quite a motivator.

When he succeeded in gathering his wits, he came to a grim conclusion. His options were quite limited. Like a wounded animal, he found his first instinct to be a frantic need to find the safety of his lair, where no one would ever find him in his weakened state. He had medical supplies there. But although his body was weak to the point of trembling with cold and exhaustion, Erik's mind was still sharp. There was no doubt that the long journey back through the tunnels would result in his death. Whether he would pass out from shock once more and bleed out or simply run out of the precious time he had before death's icy embrace, Erik knew with certainty that the decision to chance the cellars would be his last.

And although he had spent most of his life wishing for the blessed release of death, Erik did not wish to die.

Not now. Not without Christine.

Not without revenge.

There was no other choice: he had to return to the Opera. The performance of _Faust_ was still continuing; singing floated down to his ears, muffled by the floorboards and rooms between his location and the stage. If the opera patrons were distracted with the mediocre second violin scratching out the accompaniment to the chorus' wailings, there would be a fair chance that Erik could make his way to the Parisian streets without and hail a carriage that could bring him to a doctor. Even if he could not stagger his way out the grand doors, his unconscious form would not go unnoticed for long. An usher or maid would likely stumble across him. Then he would just have to hope to appeal to the goodness of human nature.

…Which he did not believe in.

But it would be better than falling prone in the labyrinthine cellars of the opera, where the only eyes that would find him would be those of numerous ravenous rats drawn to the scent of blood.

Dwelling upon the unpleasant consequences of staying in the cellar threatened to paralyze both his mind and body, and every passing second brought more of death's icy caresses that wracked him with shivers. Slowly and deliberately, Erik willed his gloved hands to move. His fingers twitched belatedly, giving him the haunting feeling that they were not part of his own body. Resolved to be content with any motion at all, his golden eyes locked upon a wooden beam on the wall not far from him. Mustering his waning strength, Erik struggled inch by painful inch to drag himself on his back toward the wall. More than once he had trouble finding purchase; the floorboards were slick with his blood. When he finally reached the beam and rested his heaving shoulders against the damp wood, his breath came in short burning gasps and a cold sweat trickled down his temple. The twisting pain in his abdomen drew a hiss from his lips, and Erik squeezed his eyes shut in agony.

Finally, for the first time, Erik reluctantly opened his eyes and willed his amber orbs to rest upon the knife.

The dark, intricately carved handle protruded from his lean torso, driven into his body to the hilt. The black fabric of his coat was stained a deeper, lustrous shade by his blood. His eyelids snapped shut unconsciously; in a desperate manner he dared to hope that he was dreaming. The searing pain that lanced through his chest as he breathed convinced him otherwise.

Suddenly, his shaking hands stilled. Slowly they moved of their own volition and he watched as a horrified spectator as they came to rest upon the hilt of the dagger.

The rational side of him knew what must be done, but his subconscious howled and raged against the prospect of more agony. In his already weakened state, he did not know if he could bear it.

But if he allowed the knife to remain while he searched for help, it would undoubtedly raise questions with its singular nature. Such exotic blades were not native to the Parisian streets, and would discredit any story he would likely weave to explain his curious situation. As it was, there was no way to heal his wound without removing the dagger anyway.

With a sickening, muffled whisper that made his stomach churn, his unnaturally steady hands quickly pulled the knife from his flesh. Erik bit his lower lip until he tasted the metallic tang of blood, restraining the cry that threatened to rip from his lungs. The curved blade fell from his numb, trembling fingers with a resounding clatter as Erik clutched his hands to the wound.

When his eyes fluttered open once more, the cellar had grown darker. The need for sleep tugged at his eyelids once more; the panic it spurred within his heart gave him a surge of power that allowed him to stagger to his feet. Erik swayed dangerously before gaining some manner of balance, because his swimming vision caused the floor to roil beneath his boots.

His time was numbered. With the knife out, the blood was not hindered in its steady escape from his veins.

Knowing this, Erik stumbled before falling into a staggering gait toward the mirror exit. After fumbling blindly and pressing the secret release for the pivot, the mirror obediently swung open. Forgetting the short drop into the dressing room, Erik's boots found air where they did not expect it and he performed a graceless dance that, despite its awkward nature, allowed him to keep his feet and avoid a quick and painful introduction with the floor.

His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and a shuddering moan escaped his lungs as he clenched his teeth against the pain. It became increasingly difficult to focus his thoughts, and Erik's limbs ever more reluctantly obeyed him.

Time was running short, and he had not even left Christine's room and reached the streets. Perhaps he would never reach them; how ironic it would be to die in the place in which he had first discovered a meaning to life.

_Christine…_

The knowledge that the angel who had brought his existence a purpose was likely in the arms of the damnable vicomte filled Erik with a consuming anger that pushed aside his suffering and weariness. With a reserve he did not think possible, he shouldered through the door of the dressing room, stumbled, and lurched into a half-run toward the entrance hall. The increased volume of the opera singing, the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the staccato clicking of his boots on the marble floor as he stormed toward the grand hall sounded eerily like his own requiem.

A swift scan of the gilded room was all Erik needed to surmise his mad dash would go unnoticed, and he proceeded determinedly to the doors to the streets of Paris, all the while tenaciously clutching his torso as if he could keep the blood in his veins by sheer willpower alone.

When the doors were almost in reach, mere feet from his outstretched arm, Erik's legs finally gave out. He did not throw his hands out to catch himself, for they were previously employed, and so he hit the marble floor hard, knocking the air from his lungs in a cry of anguish. Wincing as lights danced before his eyes, Erik tried desperately to push himself to his feet, his blood-slicked hands slipping on the smooth floor in vain. His muscles were water and determination ebbed from his body, leaving only the familiar numbness and his pounding heart.

"_C-Christine_," he whispered, the marble cool upon the already frigid skin of his cheek.

The moments that followed must have been a hallucination, a tortured and taunting dream as only those teetering on the threshold of death can weave.

Slim hands roughly grasped his shoulders, and the glaring chandeliers cast a blazing light upon his dilated pupils as he was turned over to face their brilliance. Warm fingers traced Erik's jaw line and an oval face swam in and out of focus above him as his eyes both tried desperately to adjust to the luminance and keep from rolling back in his head.

A few features were vaguely distinguishable: wide, frightened blue eyes and waving golden hair, red lips that moved dramatically with words that flowed past his ears in a queer sort of hum.

He blinked dumbly up at the figure crouched above him. A wet, warm droplet fell from the face over him, and dimly he registered it as a tear.

The first crystalline droplet was followed by others, which resurrected a torrent of half-formed and generally incoherent thoughts. For some inexplicable reason, the tears caused him pain. But it was a different pain than that which throbbed through his body as the life ebbed from his veins. It brought the hot sting of tears to his own eyes.

_Tears…Don't cry, my dear…_

A midnight fog crept from the edges of his vision, and as Erik's golden eyes struggled against the gloom that his teasing mind wrapped about him, he beheld an angel.

It was _her_ creamy skin that glowed softly in the gathering dark; _her_ eyes that filled with crystalline tears that cascaded onto his pallid face; _her_ hand that caressed his cheek as his senses faded and nothingness overcame his weeping soul.

_Christine._

XXXXXXXXX

Bright, tearstained blue eyes wide with panic, Antoinette Lansfeld forced herself to take calming breaths as she gazed frantically down at the prone figure on the cold marble before her. However much she was frightened, Antoinette did not hesitate in roaming her eyes professionally along the man's body and finding the source of the blood that soaked his garments. It was impossible to overlook the neat gash in the gentleman's coat; the blood blossomed outward from it like some gigantic and perverse rose.

She swallowed with difficulty as her heart lodged itself in her throat. Looking up at the man's pallid features, as if asking for permission, Antoinette made her choice.

Whoever this gentleman was, he was in need, and he had stumbled upon her…

She could not ignore the silent cry for help that was evident in his shallow breaths.

He had lost too much blood already; the paleness of his face and lips were an indication. With trembling hands, the young woman took hold of one of her voluminous underskirts and tore off a large portion of it. The ripping sound that the expensive cloth made as it was desecrated echoed in the silence of the grand hall, making her jump slightly.

The man on the floor did not stir.

Swiftly wadding the fabric up in her small hands, Antoinette pressed the bundle firmly to the wound.

The man cried out, his body tensing horribly and his curious amber eyes shooting open momentarily. The dilated pupils constricted rapidly in the light before his eyelids closed once more.

Antoinette's heart slammed persistently against her ribcage, threatening to burst through her chest. It was all she could do to continue applying the pressure that might save the man's life.

If she hurried.

Anxiously turning her head about, golden curls bouncing into disarray, Antoinette found no one in the vicinity. She was certain the sounds of the Opera in the nearby room would mask any cry for help she may venture. Nibbling on the finger of her dainty glove fretfully, Antoinette resigned herself to her only choice.

"I will return…just a moment…hold on…"

She trailed off, her disjointed statement likely falling dumb on the ears of the unconscious and dying man anyway. Springing to her feet determinedly, she clutched up her pink skirts and ran as fast as she could in her accursed shoes out the grand door and into the Parisian street. Scanning the rows of carriages that waited outside for their patrons, Antoinette spotted her family crest and called for the driver at the top of her lungs.

"Gabriel! Gabriel, wake up and hurry!"

The loud cry turned many a driver's head, but only the offending man jumped to the point of almost unseating himself and tumbling to the ground. He made a splendid recovery, however; snatching up the hat that had fallen in his surprise and smashing it once more atop his mass of brown hair, the man leaped from his perch and sped to his lady's side with the speed of a greyhound.

Pulling the hat from his head once more and straightening his rumpled coat, the man bowed and muttered his apology the moment he reached Antoinette's feet.

"Mademoiselle, forgive me! I had just thought the opera would last a little longer, and-"

Casting aside any attempt at manners in her current haste, Antoinette spun on her heel and reentered the Opera House, commanding Gabriel to follow with a single brusque word.

"Come."

Dimly Antoinette realized that Gabriel followed loyally at her heels, easily keeping pace with her strides as his lanky legs ate up the space between the doorway and her destination.

Since Antoinette was once more crouched on the floor, deeply consumed in her task of applying constant pressure to the makeshift bandage and checking the man's feeble pulse, she did not witness the look of dread that crossed Gabriel's face when he saw the scene before him.

She could, however, hear the emotion that shook his voice.

"_God in heaven_! M-Mademoiselle…you cannot be thinking…I don't think your father-"

Her frigid blue eyes locked on his with a piercing gaze that allowed for no argument. Vaguely she felt the heat of the man's blood on her hands, and recalled the dull and waning pulse that fluttered fitfully in his veins, like a caged butterfly.

"I am well aware of what my _father_ thinks, Gabriel. Now help me pick him up."

It was a delicate operation, but it was only a matter of moments before the two had wrestled the unconscious man to his feet, tossing an arm over their shoulder to distribute his weight. Surprisingly, Antoinette did not find herself to be as burdened as she had expected. For his height, the man was rather lean and light. _Then again, nothing lightens up the body like losing all its blood_, she mused morbidly before regaining control of her shaken nerves.

She thanked God in a silent prayer that there was no one besides the drivers in the dimly lit street. Although they received many odd looks, most drivers swiftly dismissed the curious trio shuffling toward their carriage, likely believing a patron had a heavy hand with the wine. Upon reaching the Lansfeld carriage, Gabriel shifted the man in order to free his hand and open the door.

He briefly eyed the slim young woman over the lolling head of the unconscious man before nodding his head in agreement to an unexpressed thought.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle."

Taking the hint, Antoinette stood back momentarily as Gabriel's strong arm swept under the legs of the unconscious gentleman; he leaned into the carriage to settle the man upon one of the lush cushioned seats. The moment Gabriel leaned back and made an opening for her, Antoinette squeezed past him and swiftly returned to her task of applying pressure to the wound.

Gabriel opened his mouth to protest once more, but Antoinette shot him another scathing look, silently daring him to try to convince her to do otherwise. Lowering his eyes and grumbling something along the lines of this being the end of his job, he nimbly hopped back up to his perch at the front of the carriage and urged the horses into motion with a shake of the reins and a sharp cluck of his tongue. As the carriage lurched into motion under her, Antoinette knew she did not need to tell Gabriel the destination.

The glow from the streetlights along the paved road penetrated through a crack in the curtains as the horses trotted along; shadows and light danced across the mysterious man's face, highlighting his striking features as well as his sadly pained expression.

The slender fingers of her free hand unconsciously stroked the man's disheveled jet hair, smoothing it back in place.

It was silly; she knew it. Picking up "strays," as her father so loved to call them, had never led to the liberation she secretly and desperately believed it would.

No matter how many people she helped out of their suffering, no matter how many social outcasts she befriended in their loneliness, no one returned the favor. No one heard her silent cry for release from the chains of her station, for balm for her wounded dreams and aspirations.

Running a light finger along the man's left cheek, she mused as the light shifted across his face once more.

_Maybe this time…it will be different._

XXXXXXX

Gabriel grunted with exertion as he lifted the bleeding man from the carriage and nudged the door closed with his hip. Antoinette was already rushing up the stairs leading to a large home on a crowded street, her pink skirts whispering urgently. The plaque upon the door could be read if one squinted in the dim light cast from the streetlamps: Dr. Laurent. Glancing back to make sure Gabriel could handle his burden, Antoinette turned once more to the door and frantically pushed the electric bell. The harsh buzzing could be heard even from without the home, and its cacophonic sound within the house could have woken the dead. Waiting impatiently and shifting from foot to tiny foot nervously, Antoinette attempted to peer through the sheer-curtained windows.

No one came to inquire at the door.

Ringing the bell once more, her golden curls bounced as she moaned and tapped her foot in frustration, "Please…_please_ come to the door!"

Ascending the stairs and taking his customary place behind the young woman, Gabriel eyed the heavy oak door for a moment before noting the anxiety in Antoinette. With a resigned sigh, he released the unconscious man's feet and held him beneath the arms. Turning to see what he was doing, Antoinette found herself rudely encumbered with the body as Gabriel thrust the man into her arms. She crumpled slightly under his weight before grasping him unceremoniously beneath the armpits and around the chest, pressing his back to her abdomen and blushing furiously.

"_Gabriel_!" She huffed indignantly, but, uncharacteristically, the carriage driver paid her no heed.

Standing squarely before the intimidating oak door, he slammed his fist repeatedly into the wood, creating an amazing din that rattled Antoinette's eardrums. She winced as he knocked, half pleased that the noise would undoubtedly spur some response, and half wishing he would cease the infernal racket. It echoed in the street, causing a dog to bark hysterically in the distance. A light came on in another house, and someone cursed loudly out an open window.

Gabriel didn't flinch; he simply continued his assault on the door and Antoinette's senses.

The windows rattled slightly as a heavy weight pounded down the stairs within the darkened home, and although it caused Antoinette's pretty blue eyes to widen, Gabriel showed no sign of stopping. Finally the scrape of the lock could be heard, and the handle turned violently.

The door flung inward to reveal a portly man wearing a nightshirt, the candle clutched in his hand illuminating his bald head shining with sweat and his cheeks reddened with anger.

His jowls shook as he bellowed, "_WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?_"

With all the politeness and dignity in the world, Gabriel removed his hat and made a low, sweeping bow.

"My apologies, good monsieur. I certainly hope we did not wake you, but mademoiselle has an emergency of sorts."

The even tone of his voice and his casual words clearly ruffled the doctor, who looked with wide brown eyes at the man before looking incredulously down at his own nightshirt.

"No. Of course you didn't wake me." His words were drier than ancient bones.

With a charming smile, Gabriel seized the doctor's free, pudgy hand, shaking it heartily. "Wonderful! Then we'll just bring him in to the examination room."

Turning swiftly and sweeping the unconscious man into his strong arms, Gabriel shouldered past the doctor, leaving Antoinette and the portly doctor to stare at each other with mouths ajar.

Coming to his senses with a visible start, Dr. Laurent realized he should likely follow. Turning and glancing sideways at the clearly disheveled woman who hovered on the threshold of his home, he sighed.

"I suppose you should come in. When your father finds out I took in another of your discoveries, I'm certain he will have my hide for inviting you in willingly…but the nights are growing nippy, and I won't have you catching a cold."

Releasing the breath she had been holding in her nervousness, Antoinette fixed her tearful eyes on her pink slippers.

"Thank you, monsieur."

The doctor nodded and ushered her into his home, closing the door behind them and locking it.

Rushing about in a manner that defied his girth, the bald man lit the lamps along the halls as he made his way to the examination room, filling the adjacent rooms with a comforting glow. The lights in the examination room had already been kindled by Gabriel, who now hovered over the unconscious gentleman, pressing the wadded bandage to his wound. As the doctor pushed Gabriel aside with a muttered order to stay out of the way, Antoinette slipped into the room and took up a place in a corner where she could observe the scene without being a nuisance.

Glancing down at his elegantly dressed patient, Dr. Laurent raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise as he pursed his lips.

"Different than the usual strays, I must admit…"

Shaking his head to dispel the thought, he rolled up his sleeves and began his examination. Completely absorbed in his work, the doctor removed the makeshift bandage and eyed the wound before mumbling darkly and moving to a nearby sink to scrub his hands. Returning to the table that the gentleman was laid upon, Dr. Laurent fumbled with the buttons on the man's coat for a moment, trying to remove it.

"…Ruined anyway," he grumbled, seizing a nearby pair of gleaming scissors and slicing the garments from his patient, leaving him bare-chested.

Blood stained the ashen flesh of his abdomen a crimson hue, and Dr. Laurent industriously cleaned the area around the gash with a clean damp cloth. Once he could clearly see the injury, he narrowed his eyes and ran a gentle finger along it grimly.

"Knife."

Mildly prodding and poking at the stab wound with his thick fingers, he muttered aloud to himself once more, "Looks like it missed it…yes, missed the bottom of the lung…"

After more blatant jabs, Dr. Laurent nodded in a satisfied manner and murmured aloud.

"Yes, no injury to the organs…loss of blood, yes…shock alone can be dangerous…"

Turning abruptly from his patient and opening a drawer, the rattling of metal against metal could be heard for a few moments. Curious by nature, Antoinette inched forward to get a better view, earning her a harsh look from Gabriel. She chose to ignore him.

When the doctor turned about once more, a needle and suturing thread in hand, his dark eyes finally saw the young woman and he almost dropped everything. Fumbling about awkwardly and miraculously managing to catch his instruments, Dr. Laurent's jaw worked silently for a moment in shock.

"_You_…You should NOT be in this room! Blood and innards are not an appropriate thing for young women to see! Out, now, if you please!"

"I do _not _please," Antoinette retorted, drawing herself to her full height, which still did not reach Gabriel's chin. Raising her chin imperiously, she fixed her blue eyes daringly on the old doctor. "I brought him here, and I will see that he is taken care of."

"Well I assure you, mademoiselle, I will take the best of care of your little pet. Now please wait in the drawing room." While he spoke hurriedly he threaded his needle, apparently unwilling to argue further when the man's life hung in the balance.

Recognizing the fact that the doctor's objections were mostly to uphold pretenses, Antoinette edged forward a bit more, looking on with interest. The doctor knew she had always been intrigued by medicine; from a young age, she had actively discovered injured street urchins, brought them to Dr. Laurent, and seen that they were medically cared for. Her peculiar habit of wishing to view the procedures was also well-known, and over the years the good doctor had learned to conveniently ignore her presence after his initial argument. Antoinette supposed this way Dr. Laurent could always inform her father that he had told her to wait elsewhere and keep a clean conscience.

The needle danced nimbly in and out of the unconscious gentleman's flesh. The doctor worked swiftly, his movements graceful and precise. Antoinette was torn between watching in awe as the sutures closed the wound and eyeing the man's face. She was worried he would awaken to the pain, but he only stirred slightly and knit his eyebrows together as if fighting a nightmare. Antoinette's heart ached for the poor man, and she had to restrain herself from reaching out to stroke his cheek comfortingly. If she touched the doctor's patient while he was working, she was more than certain her time in the room would be short.

Gabriel yawned audibly, covering his mouth hastily and muttering an apology when Antoinette tore her eyes from the procedure and shot him a scornful look. When she looked back to the doctor, she saw him washing the blood from his hands. The gentleman lay placid and unmoving on the table beside for the erratic rise and fall of his broad chest. The wound was neatly closed; the bleeding blessedly stopped.

Hearing her involuntary sigh of relief, Dr. Laurent turned to face her, drying his hands on a clean towel.

"Don't go rejoicing yet, my dear," the bald man said, wiping his shining brow with the cloth. "He is not yet out of danger. The loss of blood was significant; in fact, it's a wonder he made it this far. Got the devil's luck, though, he has. Whoever stabbed him missed any vital organs…but the shock could still claim him yet."

This was what she had been dreading. Glancing down at the dried blood on her own hands – she had removed the dirtied gloves, but still her flesh was stained with it – she felt the sting of tears once more in her eyes. _He was bleeding so much…all over the floor…but I though…just maybe…_

Seeing the crestfallen look on the young blonde's face, Dr. Laurent bit his lip while he wetted the cloth with warm water and strode across to Antoinette, taking her stained hands in his own and wiping the blood from them. Thus averting his eyes, the portly man broke the news as gently as he could.

"I would not take him home, my dear…he will not last the night."

"Then I shall stay here as well," Antoinette insisted, her strong and unwavering voice betrayed only by the tears that fell heavily on her hands. Dr. Laurent wiped them from her palms, pretending not to notice her faltering mask of bravery.

Apparently without the heart to refuse her simple request in the face of such tears, the bald man nodded kindly, still looking down at her creamy palms.

"Yes, yes of course. Gabriel, I will gladly house you as well so that you may be here to take Mademoiselle Antoinette home in the morning."

Without waiting for a response, Dr. Laurent excused himself to go prepare the rooms. Gabriel spared Antoinette a worried look before silently lifting the bare-chested patient in his arms and following the doctor.

Antoinette did not stir, her eyes still upon her small palms. The lamplight flickered across them and made the tears that pooled there glisten and shimmer.

"_He will not last the night."_

And thus, innocent hope died upon an operating table.

XXXXXXXX

The carriage clattered softly to a stop, bright street lamps boring obnoxiously into the interior darkness that cloaked the passengers. The night sounds that had followed their progress till now were strangely absent; it was disconcerting.

Christine winced and squinted her bloodshot eyes as the driver opened the door from without, revealing to the distraught young woman the perfect cage: the Chagny estate in all its ancient and sepulchral glory. The illuminated windows glowered down upon her frame like accusing eyes, and the towering door seemed like a gaping maw simply waiting to once more devour her. If it was possible, her heart would have dropped further in her chest, but it already hung with the weight of a thousand anchors. Being entirely sincere with herself, Christine knew this would be the sight to greet her when she was released from the stuffy carriage that she had been unceremoniously dragged into.

Sliding from his seat opposite her, where he had been observing her dwindling hysterics quietly since their departure from the Opera, the vicomte de Chagny stepped delicately from the carriage and onto the pavement, turning and offering Christine his hand with a small smile.

"We're home, Little Lotte…"

Christine had thought she had cried till no more tears were left her, but a few heavy drops plunged down her porcelain cheek in the wake of their comrades. Fixing her large brown eyes upon the man before her, she stared at him hollowly, almost as if she did not understand his words. But she understood them too well…

Deep down in her soul, she knew she would never be free of this place.

Apparently mistaking her tears of distress for tears of terror upon remembering her late captivity with the Phantom, Raoul frowned slightly, a wounded look ghosting across his features for a moment. Curling his fingers inward and gesturing her forward, Raoul attempted to smile reassuringly as he whispered, "Don't worry, Christine…you don't have to be afraid anymore. Just take my hand."

Mechanically acquiescing to the inevitable, Christine's hand slipped into his, causing a cold shiver to run from her fingers along her arm. Aiding her descent from the carriage, Raoul drew her trembling form closer to him and gently stroked her hair, trying to calm her like one would a balking horse. She could not even find the emotion to be properly indignant with this treatment; her heart, having shattered into myriad tiny pieces, could not reassemble itself to feel anything but pain.

The walk through the door was like a dream; her eyes seemed to be seeing things all too quickly, and her mind could only process certain pieces of it through its fog. The candles glaring and hurting eyes that had become too accustomed to the darkness; a servant girl taking Raoul's cloak from her shoulders where he had placed it; the marble of the staircase moving by beneath her slippered feet as she ascended to the second floor; Raoul's warm hand on hers, holding her fingers as if he might break them with too much pressure; the solid wood of her old bedroom door; the familiar scent of the pink roses that filled the vases strewn across the room…

Christine found herself standing in the center of her room, deserted except for the presence of Raoul. Vaguely she wondered how she had reached this point so suddenly, and she glanced about in a confused manner. Her eyes searched for the comfort of a familiar face, but the only person in the room brought only grief.

Raoul stood before the open door, conversing clandestinely with someone who must have just walked up, for Christine didn't notice anyone in the hallway as she had entered the room. The light from the heartily burning fire across the room played light and shadow across his profile, and to Christine's fraught nerves it seemed to harden his features in a frightening manner.

The mingled masculine voices of Raoul and the mysterious person in the hallway reached Christine's ears, yet she couldn't discern words at first. Gradually, certain words managed to penetrate her mind.

"…. certain?" Raoul's anxiousness was mirrored both in his tone and his knit brows. "Are you positive? … sure, because if he's not, I'll have a full guard outside … a price put on his accursed head."

A deeper, more composed voice soothed him reassuringly, "Monsieur Vicomte, I swear to you …no longer trouble Christine Daae." For some reason, Christine thought a note of sadness tinged the words, but quickly dismissed the notion.

Vaguely her mind registered that the voice was familiar to her, but the identity of the person was impossible to grasp, like a ripple on a pond. No matter how hard she tried to hold it, it skittered away. Besides, everything was unimportant when compared to her crushed spirit. Her senses were in overload and her heart ached as if she had been stabbed instead of…

_Erik…Oh, poor unhappy Erik…_

And suddenly the numbness that had blanketed her mind lifted like mist dispelled with the morning sun, and her mind whirled. Bits and pieces of the scene she had lately witnessed flashed across her mind like the lightning foretold by the growling clouds out her expansive windows. The opera…the mask…Raoul…the knife…

_The Persian._ The exotic accent of his deep, soft voice could not be completely eradicated even after years spent in Parisian society.

It was a curious thing, for when Christine would later think back upon it in her hours of sleepless solitude during her first night of captivity, she found it difficult to believe she had consciously chosen to move at all.

Raoul was rendered speechless as she burst past him, shouldering him aside as she closed the space between herself and the man in the hallway. A moment was all it took to be certain. There was no mistake: the Persian stood without, his elegant coat and trousers still coated with the dust of the cellars and spattered generously with drying blood. Raising her hand back furiously, Christine prepared to lash out in the only way she knew how.

Her heart painfully skipped a beat and ice ran through her blood as Christine's eyes were captivated by the brilliant jade of the Persian's. As an experienced fighter, his keen eyes saw her coming and he knew her purpose; he had every chance to stay her hand. The Persian did not move; his swarthy visage remained as stone as Christine found her nerve once more and put all the force she could muster in her small body behind her hand.

The slap rang in the hallway, and silence followed as everyone present absorbed what had happened. Raoul stood dumbfounded, still clutching at the doorframe he had used to keep his balance after being unceremoniously pushed aside. His mouth hung open slightly and his eyes resembled twin blue saucers. Christine's heart lurched a few times in a slowed state as time seemed to stand still.

The Persian, his eyes closed and jaw clenched, remained motionless for a moment, his head still turned to the side from the force of Christine's blow. Slowly he turned back, a muscle in his narrow jaw twitching, before his eyes snapped open, seeming to flare in the light.

Christine, now dreadfully devoid of her evanescent courage, trembled visibly as she waited for the blow; however, her chocolate eyes remained locked upon the Persian's sleek profile. She did not wish to see it, but steeled herself as best she could and prepared herself to witness the rage that would burn in those jade orbs. In a way, she wanted him to lash out, to strike her with all his might. Then, for once in this entire happening, she would be seen…acknowledged instead of rudely and efficiently ignored.

But his eyes opened and in them she saw only pity.

Tears welled in her eyes, echoing the sting in her hand. She shifted restlessly for a moment, but she knew any more physical abuse on her part would change nothing.

Frustration swelled within her and tears poured down her cheeks as she howled, "You BASTARD! Don't look at me like that! DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!"

Raoul was at her side in a moment, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling her away from the Persian as gently as he could manage.

"Shh, Christine…It's okay now, you're tired, you just need to rest…"

But she could not hear the murmured words in her ear over the screams that ripped from her throat as she struggled wildly to free herself.

"I don't need your pity! You're the reason this all happened….you killed him! YOU KILLED ERIK!"

Raoul managed to pull her back inside the room and nudged the door with his foot as he proceeded to lead her to a chair situated before the fireplace.

Christine fought for every inch that she was dragged, but in the end she could not overcome Raoul's greater strength. Her eyes remained locked upon the Persian, burning with a harsh intensity and hatred. Through the tears that pooled in her eyes, Christine saw the Persian still standing in the hallway, his brilliant green eyes catching the flames that roared in the fireplace. Something glimmered in his eye, but before Christine could discern what it was he ducked his head without a word and turned to leave.

The door closed behind him with a resounding click that resonated through Christine's very soul.

With the Persian out of sight, Christine gave up her struggle and relaxed in Raoul's arms, causing him to cautiously loosen his grip upon her body. Shrugging out of Raoul's arms, Christine collapsed in the plush chair, her sobbing subdued as she wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the inferno held within the hearth.

"…I don't need your pity…"

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**Setting things up...pulling everything together...ah, it feels good to have ideas again haha!  
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	23. Awakening

**Another update before school begins again...the end of the break. (sigh) Ah well, all good things cannot last.**

**Thanks for the reviews, and for sticking with me while I rediscovered my muse!**

**WARNING! (and a second-thought one at that lol) I am not going upon the Kay book, because I haven't read it, and personally I have my own little ideas in my head that I'd prefer to use instead of someone else's. Not knocking the book, just not copying it, yah know. K, thanks!  
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**Chapter Twenty-Three: Awakening**

Slipping out of the room quietly and swiftly, Raoul pulled the door closed behind him and leaned back against it. The steadily-burning candles along the walls cast soothing pools of light around themselves, illuminating the long expanse of the hallway.

And, although he had expected to be confronted by the Persian upon exiting the room, he was now blessedly alone. He let his breath rush past his lips in a heartfelt sigh of relief.

The past few moments within the room behind him had been almost more harrowing than witnessing the battle in the cellars of the Opera House. Hovering at Christine's side as tears silently coursed their way down her creamy cheeks had been most unnerving. He knew not what to say to her; he had only knelt by her side, trying to entice some show of the spirited and beautiful young woman he once knew. No matter how he had tried to catch her eye, Christine refused to acknowledge his presence any longer as she blankly stared into the flames before her. Although he wished to shake her with all his might, to awaken her from her spellbound state that was obviously the doing of the accursed Opera Ghost, Raoul could not bring himself to move or make a sound. Her grief was so deep and intense that it seemed sacrilege to even be in her presence. Finally Raoul had gathered enough nerve to rise and quietly exit the room.

_Pull yourself together_, he chided himself sternly. _Christine is safe now, and with her out of that demon's presence he cannot twist her poor mind any longer. She will soon come to her senses, but seeing you in such an agitated state won't help her in the least._

Standing up straight and adjusting his coat, Raoul ran a hand over weary eyes and stifled a yawn. A brief examination of his pocket watch told him it was rather later than he had thought. All the excitement and turmoil had taken a toll on his mind and body, but he could not rest yet. He had allowed himself a few moments to recuperate, but now the time had come to find Nadir Khan and inform Meg Giry of how the night had transpired.

A ghost of a smile curled his lips as he thought of poor little Meg. She had been allowed to know that some manner of rescue attempt would be underway this night, but as she had been required to participate in the performance of _Faust_, she had been unable to have any part in the dangerous maneuver. Although she was adamant about doing her part to rescue her dearest friend, saying she could claim to have a mysterious sickness to cover her absence, a few moments aside with the Persian had been all that was needed to seal any more protests behind her lips. Raoul had not the faintest idea what had been said, but it was apparently very effective. Meg had begrudgingly sworn to stay and participate in the Opera, but only on the condition that she would be informed of the success of the operation the moment they could come back to the Paris Opera House. As he was certain the wait would have likely driven the little Giry insane, causing her to miss many steps in her ballet performance and earn her many stern reprimands and punishments from the strict Madame Giry, there was nothing to be done but bring Meg the ease of mind she deserved.

However, Raoul's stomach roiled at the thought of facing the stony visage of Nadir once again. When he himself had come rushing to the aid of his fair Christine, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stormed through the halls of the Opera House and plunged into the cellars, Raoul was certain he had courage to face the devil himself in search of his fiancée. His blood had turned sluggish in his veins and his body refused to move when those blazing golden eyes rent the darkness. To say the man had the raw ferocity of a cornered wolf would have been an immense understatement. The damnable creature's chill calm and murderous intent was enough to seize the air within the vicomte's lungs. It was then that Raoul knew the courage it would take to stand before such a monster without flinching, and that courage belonged to the Persian.

Courage was one thing, but it was something different entirely that allowed the Persian to coldly face the demonic creature and drive his knife deep within him without any sign of fear. It was something different entirely that allowed the exotic man to simply push the dead body aside and resume everyday existence while still soaked in blood and covered in grime.

It was something different, and something entirely inhuman.

But a deal was a deal, and Raoul appreciated the service he had done in aiding in the rescue of his fiancée. Brushing his hands through his hair and readjusting his ponytail, Raoul turned and headed off down the hallway.

That is, he would have headed off down the hallway if he hadn't been seized by the shoulders and slammed into the wall after only walking a few steps. The candles on the wall shivered, and one fell to the marble floor with a clatter and sizzled out.

"What in God's name is going on here?" Philippe de Chagny whispered venomously, mere centimeters from his younger brother's face. The icy chill of his voice matched the coldness of his eyes.

"Ah…brother…I had hoped to find you-"

"Don't you _dare_. Don't even try," Philippe cut him off, shaking Raoul's shoulders and making his teeth rattle.

When Philippe was convinced of his brother's obedient silence, he loosened his fingers enough to where his nails no longer dug trenches in his brother's shoulders. Fixing him with his calculating eyes for a moment longer, as if trying to read the answers to his questions before he even ventured to ask them, Philippe finally spoke.

"I demand an explanation, and it better be a damned good one. First, I find that you have left the grounds in your weakened state, heading off to God knows where with not a word. I don't know _how_ you did it, whether it was with the help of some servant, but frankly I don't care about the details. What I _do_ demand to know is why on earth you would think yourself fit to leave while you happen to be raving mad."

Raoul's eyebrows shot together and he opened his mouth indignantly to protest against his supposed mental instability, but Philippe pressed a finger roughly to his lips and silenced him.

"I'm not finished. Did you perhaps realize, while you were off wooing perfectly respectable women in the Paris Opera House directly after the announcement of the death of your fiancée, that you would perhaps…_I don't know_…" He waved a hand dramatically as his words dripped with sarcasm, "bring utter _ruin_ and _disgrace_ to your family name?"

Raoul smiled.

Apparently it was not the correct response to his older brother's accusation of single-handedly destroying the reputation of their illustrious family. It earned him a swift blow to the cheek as Philippe coldly backhanded him. It wasn't enough to hurt him badly, just enough to momentarily knock the smirk from his face.

Clutching Raoul's chin in one hand, Philippe narrowed his eyes dangerously, leaned in and hissed, "That is amusing, is it? Dragging our name through the mud with your thoughtless actions makes you grin? What the hell is _wrong_ with you, man?"

Raoul smiled again, and his blood ran hot through his veins as he pushed his brother's hand aside. Philippe could only stare at him helplessly, noiselessly mouthing words as a vein pulsated visibly in his temple.

"Nothing is wrong. And yes, I find it amusing. Namely because she is not dead, as I told you." His cheek burned slightly from the slap, but at the moment his heart was light with his triumph and he could not find the will to reciprocate the violence.

For a man who could normally veil his emotions and purpose so efficiently, a man who was naturally as cunning as a fox and twice as deceptive and charming when the occasion required it, it was frankly astonishing how sometimes Philippe could be read like a book. Eyes that served as a permanent curtain to his inner thoughts opened and his course of action was blatantly apparent. Without opening his mouth, he said it: "_I'm calling for the doctor_."

"Call the doctor and you shall be proven the fool, not I, brother," Raoul's smirk widened at the indignant look that ghosted across Philippe's face before he schooled his visage back to its stony composure.

Philippe stood back, his stocky body drawn to its full height and a disdainful edge to his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched it, and when he finally spoke his tone was even and completely void of emotion.

"What could you possibly mean by that, dear Raoul?"

"Christine isn't dead. She's very much alive, and I have her-"

Once more the elder brother asserted himself and cut the younger man's words short.

"I've heard this before, dear brother, and I grow weary of your delusions. She was found dead in the Paris Opera House, and the obituary ran for the entire city to see." He paused and adjusted the cuff of his coat as he made an attempt at sympathy that would have been convincing to anyone but his own blood.

"I realize this must have been a great shock to you, having been so in love with the girl."

A pause.

"But let's be serious, brother. Mere wishes do not raise people from the grave."

Raoul puffed his chest out and returned his brother's icy stare.

"If I chose to disregard her need for rest and her distraught state after being captive to a monster for so long, I would allow you to see her. As it is, I choose to postpone your belief if need be in order to serve her better interest."

Silence hung heavy between them, and since Philippe had far more experience with being stubborn and haughty, Raoul caved first. Sighing heavily and staring at the highly-polished toes of his boots, he put aside his pride.

_He's the only one I can run to. If father were alive…but no, there's no use wishing and whining. _

Overall, Philippe was a kind and concerned older brother. Having to serve as a father as well as a sibling had hardened him slightly and led him to the tendency to be stern, but even in his times of rage it was always due to concern for Raoul and his future.

And Raoul knew he needed to confront this before it slowly ate him away from the inside.

"Brother," he whispered, completely deflated and once more the small child, scared and unsure. "I have her back. But I don't know what to do. That…man…is dead, and I know she is safe now. We're safe now. We can – we _will _be married. But everything is changed now. I don't know if we can go back out to Paris…"

He trailed off, and since his eyes still remained locked intently upon his shoes, Philippe studied the top of his golden-haired head. Philippe stroked his chin thoughtfully, then crossed his arms for a moment as his eyes took on a glassy look. Venturing to glance upward, Raoul's spirit brightened slightly. There would be a plan. Philippe would fix things, make things alright like he always had the knack for doing.

"Well," Philippe began matter-of-factly, "you're right."

The large grandfather clock down the marble staircase chimed and began counting off the hours.

_One_.

_Two_.

_Three_.

Still silence.

"That's it?" Raoul blurted out, eyes widened in awe.

Philippe nodded.

"No plan whatsoever? No advice, no counsel?" he continued, his voice taking on an edge of panic.

"No."

Philippe stood there, blandly staring at Raoul. In the very moment that Raoul felt he was drowning, his brother merely looked on and crossed his arms without offering a helping hand.

Never before had Raoul so wanted to injure Philippe de Chagny.

"Fine. I'm leaving." Raoul's curt words sliced the quiet between them, and he turned with fire in his eyes to leave.

"Not so fast, dear brother. I said you were right about not being able to return to Paris. I never said you were right about never finding a way out of this…situation. I can tell you how to find your happiness with your fiancée."

Peering over his shoulder back at the man, Raoul watched a smirk twist the lips of Philippe de Chagny as the candlelight played over his face in a sinister manner.

Hesitantly, knowing there was some stipulation to such an offer, Raoul asked, "And what would that require?"

"You have done such a miraculous and thorough job in destroying every prospect for happiness in Paris. Your bride-to-be is technically dead in the eyes of every Parisian, and even if you're not a raving lunatic, you certainly managed a charming impression of a maniac. Those that witnessed it will have likely spread a few rumors, and I rather doubt your harrowing story about your struggle with influenza stifled the curiosity of many."

"_Influenza_?"

Philippe continued as if he had never been interrupted.

"Therefore, you have only one choice. You must leave."

Although he had been expecting this answer, dreading this solution to his woes, Raoul felt as if a large stone dropped suddenly into his stomach. A cold sweat began on his forehead and trickled determinedly down his temple. He had been around the globe and sailed to many places; the world in its immensity did not frighten him. But he had always come home to the Chagny estate. There was always the familiarity of the Parisian streets, the nights at the Opera, the friends he had made in this place. After making plans to permanently settle and spend the rest of his days in Paris, the thought of throwing it all away was terrifying.

But Raoul de Chagny knew there was no other way.

"Where?" He winced inwardly at the hollow sound of his own voice, and cleared his throat before continuing with more confidence. "Where should we go? And when?"

Spreading his arms wide and offering a reassuring smile, Philippe answered, "The world is yours, little brother. Go wherever you please; it's certainly not as if you're constrained by money," he chuckled.

Raoul frowned, his flaxen brows drawing together.

"But where? It's one thing to say I can go wherever I please and another to have any idea where to go…"

Coming forward and wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders in a comforting manner, Philippe suggested, "Perhaps this is a subject you should discuss with your fiancée? What I mean to say is, I may just be guessing at this, but I'd imagine she would like some say as to where she will get married and raise her children. Just a guess, mind you."

Raoul couldn't help but grin slightly at his brother's sarcasm. "Yes, I suppose that would be the best thing to do. I won't bring it up until she is rested a bit…it would be too much for her to think on now."

Philippe nodded and patted his younger brother's back before a shriek rent the air and drew both men to the staircase.

His heart beating double time in his chest, Raoul did not have to wait long before a servant girl ran out of one of the connecting rooms, screeching at the top of her lungs and nervously working her apron through her hands.

"Enough of that!" Philippe boomed, his voice echoing down to the young woman and immediately damming her wails. She looked as if she were about to cry, whether from fright or of injured feelings at her master's cross tone Raoul did not know.

Continuing in a voice like soothing balm to compensate for his harsh rebuke earlier, Philippe asked quietly, "Now, what is the matter, mademoiselle?"

Her face red from the exertion of sending her cries ringing down every hall of the house, the young woman brushed a few strands of hair out of her face before explaining, "Monsieur, I was just cleaning up the library when this horrible beast of a man walked in…with…with BLOOD all over him!"

It seemed the girl was planning on continuing her speedily spoken tirade, but the appearance of said beast of a man sent her back into blood-chilling and incoherent wails.

Looking up at the brothers Chagny, Nadir Khan simply blinked placidly and shrugged his shoulders minutely.

Philippe de Chagny looked pointedly apoplectic, and Raoul decided this would in fact be a wonderful time to take his leave of his brother. Murmuring something that could be taken for a goodbye, but being sure it was not loud enough to be heard over the yowling servant girl, Raoul attempted to slip unnoticed down the stairs.

A large hand roughly grabbed his collar, making him choke audibly, and dragged him back up the few stairs he had managed to descend.

"Oh no, dear brother. I believe you have some explaining to do."

Somehow, over the din below, it was not difficult to detect the seething fury in Philippe de Chagny's tone.

XXXXXXXXXX

The sky rumbled, growling with thunder and moaning with the high wind that battered the windows and rattled the glass in its panes. Gray clouds blanketed the sky, multiplying the darkness of the Parisian streets at night except for the flashes of light that lanced across the underbellies of thunderheads swollen with rain. The streets were completely emptied; it seemed that even the street urchins that normally loitered about the doctor's home hoping for handouts had heeded the warnings of the heavens and sought what shelter they could.

But, for all the snarling of the skies and promise of torrential rain, it seemed it was a hollow threat. For hours Antoinette had remained awake, watching in anticipation for the downpour that would never come. It was odd weather for a decidedly odd night.

Of course, Antoinette did not forgo her sleep simply to note the climate.

The creaking of the door announced the arrival of Gabriel, and Antoinette swiftly broke away from her reverie and strode businesslike across the room to take the basin of fresh cool water from the man. She spared a moment to murmur her thanks.

Gabriel's usually bright gray eyes had lost their luster, appearing to mirror the sky outside. His clothing was rumpled, and somewhere along the way he had discarded his coat, and although his vest was still meticulously buttoned, his cravat was lopsided. The need for sleep had carved dark circles around his eyes and he subdued yawns on occasion, but not once had he complained of the frivolity of tending to a dying man. Ever vigilant, he did not need to be called to replace the room temperature water with cool water. When he was not needed, he left the room and closed the door behind him quietly so as not to interrupt her.

Turning to place the porcelain basin upon the table, Antoinette heard Gabriel's weary footsteps heading toward the door. She did not bother to turn as she busily dipped the cloth into the cold water and rung it out with her slender hands.

"Gabriel…"

The whispered word ceased his footsteps, and he turned and asked formally, "Yes, mademoiselle?"

"You don't need to keep bringing the water. I'm certain you're tired; I keep hearing your stifled yawns no matter how you try to hide them. You need to sleep," her soft voice was low to keep from disturbing her patient, but it sounded strained and exhausted even to her own ears.

Her words evoked no response, and she looked over her shoulder, tossing her disheveled blonde curls. Gabriel stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, with a queer smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

Knowing how pathetic her voice sounded while saying such strong words and knowing how exhausted and unkempt she must look in her torn dress and mussed hair, Antoinette scowled at Gabriel's unspoken remark upon her own state. She knew by his stubborn nature alone that he would not leave her to tend this man alone, no matter how ludicrous he believed the situation to be.

Flustered and blushing angrily at being so, she barked, "Go. You're getting in my way."

The harsh words were understood, and Gabriel's grin widened and he bowed slightly, "Of course, mademoiselle. You're very welcome."

He left swiftly, the door clicking shut behind him as Antoinette grumbled inwardly.

_Well, I tried…and I'm not wholly ungrateful for the help. _

_Not that I couldn't do it on my own._

Folding the moistened cloth carefully, she applied it to the unconscious man's forehead. The candles in the room were few and dim; she had not wished to overburden the stranger with glaring lights upon waking, and although it aided sleep's persistent assault upon her senses, Antoinette decided it was a sacrifice she could make. The candle's glow barely reached the man, and he was more a silhouette than anything, but she could still see his chest rise and fall beneath the blankets. It was labored breathing, but it was breathing nonetheless.

Seating herself on the plain wooden stool she had pulled to the bedside, Antoinette put her elbow upon the edge of the bed and rested her chin on her hand with a sigh.

He was putting up a good fight; that much was certain. In the beginning, he had begun to shiver uncontrollably. Knowing it was important to keep him warm while in such a delicate stage of his recovery, Antoinette and Gabriel had sacrificed the blankets from their own beds, tucking each one carefully about the shuddering man. That episode had lasted for what seemed an eternity, and when he finally stopped shaking with cold, Antoinette believed he might in fact defy the odds and survive.

A casual brush of his heated skin as she removed some of the blankets had been all Antoinette needed to know he was not yet out of danger. He began his tossing and turning once more, this time in a frantic effort to remove the sheets from his burning body. The fever had lasted for hours, and all the while Gabriel had dutifully brought fresh water for Antoinette to sponge upon the stranger's fevered brow in the oppressive darkness.

Once, Antoinette had believed the man's eyes shot open in the gloom as lightning flashed outside, and his eyes caught the brilliant amber in their orbs. Her breath had caught in her throat for a moment, but she quickly dismissed this notion as nerves when the light had disappeared and the candle's warm glow was the only source of illumination. The man had been still lying upon the bed, eyes closed and brows knit in his silent struggle with death.

And silent it was, for he never cried out.

Bringing her hand once more to his forehead, Antoinette's face grew grim. Although clammy, his skin had returned to normal temperature. What normally would bring the attendant woman such joy only served to dampen her spirits when her hand came to rest on his chest.

It did not move.

Tears pricked her eyes painfully, responding to the fact that her heart would not accept. Biting her lip to keep her tears at bay, Antoinette leaned in, placing her ear mere inches from the man's parted lips.

_Dear God, I knew this was coming, but I had hoped…I had so hoped…_

Moments passed, and the infernal ticking of the clock upon the wall seemed to slow as Antoinette held her own breath, waiting…hoping…

A trickle of breath escaped his lips, tickling her ear. Her heart soared. It was shallow, but it was breathing nonetheless. He was still alive.

_He's still alive? And what if it means furthering his suffering? Must the man die in agony, or can you just let him go in peace if God wills it?_

Utterly disgusted with herself, Antoinette fell to her knees with the quiet whisperings of her skirts and buried her head in her hands.

_How selfish of me. I don't fight for his life; I fight for the mere hope that through this man my own life will be saved. I've stayed here for hours, fighting tooth and nail to keep death at bay, but at what cost? Does he suffer greater for my self-centered acts? Do I just prolong the inevitable? _

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, Antoinette's head lowered to rest upon her crossed arms on the edge of the bed. As the candles sputtered and the thunder still grumbled restlessly, Antoinette's disjointed thoughts formed into a manner of desperate prayer.

_God, it is out of my hands now. Before I fought to save this man for myself, but now I ask You to take him in Your arms. If he is to live, it will not be through my power, but through Yours._

With her spirit finally calmed, sleep came on swift wings.

XXXXXXXXX

_He was a helpless child once more, in the stage of life where the world had only just begun to show the horrible cruelties that could be inflicted upon an anomaly. It was before his heart had hardened, before he had perfected the mask that hid his emotions. Before he learned the importance of the mask that hid his face._

_He had worn the mask, of course, practically the moment after his birth. The midwife could not arrive through the raging storm that he was born during, and his father had already allowed the servants to return to their homes to be with their families during this time when the heavens seemed to roil with fury. His father, a doctor among other things, had aided with the birth and been the first to witness his son's horrific features. It was then that the mask had been created, deftly crafted by his father's artistic hands. _

_Although his first mask had been a crude one, his father had constructed many different ones as he grew, making a sort of game from it. It was then that he had been introduced to the theater, encouraged by his father and the fanciful masks he fashioned for his son's blossoming imagination. It allowed him a way to both cultivate his mind and escape reality. _

_It infuriated his mother to no end. With the watchful eyes of her husband upon her, she normally just politely ignored her son, professing her love only when it did not involve any physical contact between her and her offspring. Though normally she maintained her cold composure, she was prone to sudden and violent outbursts when his father was not at home. _

_Today was one of those days when he had been looking for attention. His father had been gone for weeks, and although he had been doing a lovely job of staying out from beneath his mother's feet, he yearned to earn some sort of affection from the beautiful woman that was his mother. Just to make her smile would be enough…_

_Going to his room and selecting a mask that his father spent hours making perfect, he placed it on his face and whirled a miniature cloak about his shoulders. He would be her prince charming, and he would fight dragons and giants for her, and then he would take her off on his mighty steed and bring her to his castle…_

_His mother was not amused. Finding her at the piano, she turned at his call and beheld the perfectly formed porcelain mask of a handsome prince's features. Crying out, she had snatched the mask from his face and beaten him severely. All the while tears streamed down her face._

_"Don't you ever…Don't mock me! How could you! You demon!"_

_When she left the house with the resounding slam of the door, he finally uncurled himself from the fetal position, his golden eyes locked upon the shattered mask. Inching over to it on his knees, he held the pieces in his tiny hands, clenching them in his palms until they cut his flesh. _

_He cried, but not from pain._

_Erik was only four._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Erik's golden eyes shot open and his breath came in quick gasps as he forced down the panic that had arisen in his mind.

_It was a dream. Just a dream._

The same dream, but he had not had it for countless years. It left the familiar ache in his heart and sour taste in his mouth. He calmed his trembling limbs, mentally berating himself for losing his composure over a dream, and proceeded to wipe a steady hand across his perspiring brow.

His fingers came in contact with the synthetic skin of his mask and he sat up swiftly.

Or, at least, he attempted to sit up swiftly. The movement sent a jarring pain through his entire body, and he ground his teeth to restrain a cry of agony. Erik did not need to glance down to recall the knife wound, but he found himself staring at his bandaged chest in awe.

_I lived. Hmm, an amusing twist of fate. I suppose God decided he owed me a favor. Or perhaps he had nothing better to do on this rainy night._

The sarcastic chuckle that began deep within his chest hurt, so Erik resolved to allow himself to have a good laugh over it later.

He lowered himself once more and leaned upon his elbow; his muscles shook uncontrollably and stubbornly refused to hold his weight, but he ignored them, remaining still.

It was all he could do to remain still, for his eyes darted about the unfamiliar room, heightening his animalistic fear.

The candles drowning in their own wax and feebly flickering to their deaths. The thunder outside the windows that vibrated throughout his bones. The girl next to him. The door across the room that he could likely escape from should the windows be barred. The clock that hinted that it would soon be sunrise if the clouds cleared.

The girl next to him.

She sat on the floor with her skirts draped about her legs, resting her head on the bed. Her delicate cheek was rested upon her crossed arms, flaxen curls draping loosely across her shoulders, her hand less than an inch from his own. Erik remained perfectly still, holding his breath as he stared at her sleeping form. Anger rose within him.

_Whoever the hell this girl is, she just HAD to sit herself right in my way! Damn it all! It's a wonder I didn't wake her before with my thrashing about…_

Normally, with a healthy body and all his muscles functioning properly, Erik would have easily escaped such a poorly guarded room. He was, of course, the Opera Ghost, and had a distinct knack for avoiding unwanted eyes.

_Somehow I don't precisely think I can avoid her eyes if I have to roll myself off the bed, collapse in a heap on the floor, and crawl to the door. Quite the dilemma, Erik._

Delicately, so as not to wake the girl, he lay back down upon the bed and glared at the ceiling. He panted just from the exertion of sitting up. There was no possibility of escape, and Erik did not even know where to run to or how to get there. He didn't even know where he was at the moment or whose house he currently resided in. It certainly didn't help that his head seemed intent on exploding with the pain built up inside it.

The young woman stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she hovered between sleep and waking. Erik's breath caught in his throat and he stared at her in horror for a moment before he had the presence of mind to close his eyes and pretend to be unconscious. The last thing he wanted now was to have to explain things to this mysterious girl. She likely craved and explanation, and if Erik had learned anything from Christine it was that young women had a tendency to be quite stubborn when it came to getting what they wanted.

The name, even in his thoughts, brought a pang of pain quite unlike the throbbing wound in his chest. Before he could stop it, the name escaped his lips in an agonized whisper.

"_Christine_…"

A slender hand rested lightly upon his bare forearm and Erik could sense the excitement like electricity through their contact. His eyes snapped open at being unexpectedly touched, and curious blue eyes appeared inches from his.

With a surprised gasp, the girl fell back upon a rickety stool with a thud and a yelp. Clutching one hand to her chest, she blushed furiously as an outburst of words spilled from her rosy lips.

"I'm so very sorry, monsieur, but I had thought perhaps you were still dreaming. I thought you said something, but you seemed to still be sleeping-"

Erik supposed it could have been due to the queer look he gave her, but the girl somehow came to her senses and took a moment to gather herself. Wringing her hands with excitement, she positively beamed down at him, her weary features lighting up.

"Oh, thank God you're alive! I was so worried…you had quite an injury, and even the doctor did not believe you would make it."

Erik meant to say something polite, to charm her with honeyed words and swiftly assure her of his soundness of body and mind. If right from the start he was the perfect gentleman and proved to her his quick recovery, she might be convinced more easily to release him.

Unfortunately, charm and grace – although second nature Erik – was completely beyond his grasp as he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Who are you?"

Blankly staring at him for a moment, taken aback by his harsh tone, it took a second for the girl's expression to soften. Smiling down at him, she placed a comforting hand on his own larger hand.

"Don't worry, I know things must be very shocking for you right now. Let me explain."

Placing one hand on her chest, she said soothingly, "I am Antoinette Lansfeld, and this is the home of Dr. Laurent in Paris. You were attacked; I found you in the Paris Opera House and brought you here for treatment. I'm not quite sure of the details of the attack, but I'm sure you can enlighten me on that subject."

The confidence in her voice when she spoke the last words only assured Erik that he had been correct in his assumption. Her curiosity on the subject of the attack would raise questions he would rather avoid.

Erik knew he should craft a cleverly formulated story as to his identity and the happenings of last night. He would say something to quell her curiosity and forgo a drawn out explanation. It would be simple. It would be believable.

Unfortunately, it would also be out of his grasp at the moment. With his head pounding as if someone rhythmically beat a bass drum within it, Erik's only response was…

"I don't remember."

Erik's eyes widened with fright as Antoinette's eyes filled with crystalline tears.

She clutched his hand comfortingly in her own smaller hands.

"Oh, poor monsieur…I'm so sorry. Perhaps it was the shock? I'm certain you will remember in time, and until then, you may stay with me. I'm sure the doctor will have need for these rooms, but rest assured: my home is open to you, monsieur."

Feeling pointedly claustrophobic at the thought of prolonged confinement, Erik faltered. "Mademoiselle, I do remember a small portion of things…"

The girl brightened up visibly, and vaguely Erik wondered at how little effort it took for her mood to swing back to happiness.

"You do remember, monsieur? Splendid! If you would just tell me the name of your estate, I can have Gabriel bring you there the moment you are healed."

_Oh yes, that will work divinely. "You can just drop me off in this graveyard, if you don't mind." _

This would require some rational thought and planning, and both were beyond Erik at the moment. With an inward sigh, he did the best he could to stall for time without completely ruining his chances of escape.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but perhaps I will remember that in time…"

He stared down at their hands apologetically, adopting an air of dramatic tragedy. Erik could almost feel the young woman's heart going out to him, willing to cater to his every need to aid his recovery. He hid the hint of a smirk that curled his lips by lowering his eyes further.

Her voice soft and filled with sympathy, Antoinette asked delicately, "Do you at least remember your name, monsieur?"

Bringing his amber orbs back upwards to lock with the girl's blue eyes, he nodded.

"My name is Erik."

* * *

**Ah, moving right along...spiraling toward conflict...WOOHOO! Haha!**


	24. Raising Ghosts

**Well, first chapter in a while. Thank you for everyone that continued to read and review, even after the long wait. Knowing that people still wanted to hear the rest of the story is really the only thing that's gotten me interested in writing again.**

**Lots of stuff has happened, all of which kept me from writing. But hey, it doesn't matter because it's over with. I'm not going to pretend nothing will keep me from cranking out a chapter every other day, because things always come up. But just know that I've already got the notes for the next chapter going, and I'm back in the plotting mood...**

**Not much action this chapter. It happens. Has to be written though, to get us from one place to the next and let you know what's on everyone's minds...**

**As always, questions and comments welcome...or just drop me a line and let me know how you're doing haha -grin-**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Raising Ghosts**

A log crackling in the hearth, the light and warmth pervading throughout the room bringing comfort to the soul. The plush cushions that cradled him as he gazed into the dancing flames seemed like the softest clouds to his aching body. The silence that blanketed the room was comforting, and only broken by the sound of a shirt being scrubbed against a washboard.

There was simply something so soothing about returning to one's home after a bloodbath.

And Nadir Khan had, almost literally, taken a bath in blood. In such circumstances, and considering the welcome he had received at the Chagny estate, Nadir had concluded that it would be an opportune time to freshen up. In the cover of darkness, he had returned to his modest apartment on the Rue de Rivoli. After a thorough bath drawn by his manservant Darius, Nadir had donned fresh trousers, gathered his ruined clothing, and proceeded to discard it. A few moments later, while he made himself comfortable on oversized cushions before the fire, the telltale sound of a washboard could be heard from outside the room.

After trying to persuade Darius of the frivolity of trying to salvage his expensive shirt and coat, Nadir had finally resigned himself to making allowances for some measure of stubbornness in his manservant.

Besides, Darius, like the good man he was, had not asked any questions.

Nadir had enough on his mind as it was without having to formulate explanations.

Laying on his side and propping himself up with his elbow, he ran his fingers through his hair briefly to slick back the loose wet strands. Old scars shone white on his swarthy skin, crossing his bare chest and arms. They were relatively few, but he could vividly recall the distinct pain of every cut. Each one represented a mistake made and a lesson learned.

_Perhaps_, the Persian mused, _the scar that will forever mark Erik will help him learn as well._

Jade eyes growing distant and staring past the fire, he frowned pensively, but quickly checked himself and returned his expressions to neutrality. It would serve no purpose to further pique Darius' curiosity; it also sent a twinge of pain through his wounded jaw. Nadir did not require a mirror to confirm that an ugly bruise had arisen in the wake of Erik's blow.

_Minor wounds…especially when compared to his._

Disquiet tenaciously pervaded his thoughts; his mind proved to be a weapon against itself as it presented him repeated visions of Christine Daae's tortured features, of Erik lying crumpled and defeated on the cellar floor, and especially of the haunted air that Mademoiselle Daae had adopted upon entering the Chagny estate.

With a sickening feeling that had never previously accompanied such vicious actions, Nadir's stomach churned unpleasantly as he recalled the sensation of driving steel deep within Erik's torso.

Nadir was unwilling to acknowledge the fact, but in truth, he was feeling the pangs of doubt. In the business of life and death there was no room for such uncertainty, such remorse, especially when the future of numerous people hung in the balance.

No; he had to be perfectly confident in the choices he had made that night.

For many crucial decisions had been made in the course of a few hours.

After a lengthy discussion with the Vicomte de Chagny and the boisterous little Meg Giry, there was no question that something would be done to free Christine Daae from the clutches of the menacing Opera Ghost. Once again, Nadir had found himself obligated to step in and bring order to the chaos that Erik perpetuated. In an act of desperation, Erik had manipulated the young woman into returning once more to the depths of the Opera, relying on her honest and compassionate nature to draw her into his web of deceit once again. Once more, it had been Erik and not Christine Daae who had made the decision on whom she would spend the rest of her days with in matrimony. There had been mere stipulations before; realizing this had obviously not been advantageous to his cause, Erik had relied upon pure force.

And that, Nadir was sure, could not be tolerated.

He had known Erik for many years; their history, although rocky, had not been entirely wrought with disaster and fueled by hatred. Through careful consideration and ample time, Nadir had been able to glimpse the genius behind the demon. Although it had convinced him of Erik's mortality, it had also been deeply unsettling. Of all people Erik had encountered in his accursed life, it was Nadir who knew the atrocities he was truly capable of when angered.

Erik was, unfortunately, easily roused to anger.

The bits and pieces of Erik's tragic past that Nadir had managed to compile only served to heighten his worry. Erik had been cruelly deceived even from his birth, and the victims' grievous mistakes were never reconciled without copious amounts of blood. With all he had sacrificed to win the love of Christine Daae, Nadir was certain Erik would not rest until all humanity – and even Mademoiselle Daae – had suffered greatly if he was refused.

Erik was a veritable monster. His volatile temper and complete ignorance on the concept of morality proved to create a formidable fiend of a man. If Erik was denied once more and Mademoiselle Daae consented to marry the Vicomte, it would mark the conclusion of his conquest for her heart. There would be no end to his murderous fury.

Although he knew this with certainty, when the plans had been made and the time had come for Erik to reap the pain that he sowed so carelessly, Nadir had been unable to make the killing blow.

_If only I had. In my moment of weakness, I have allowed a monster to live another day to terrorize mankind. I could have ended it. I could have driven the cold steel deep into his frozen heart. Those who have died at his ruthless hands could have rested in peace. _

_But I could not. I deceived myself once more; I trusted that, with help, he could see the error of his ways and change. I had seen his genius, and I could not bear to deprive the world of it, no matter what havoc he would wreak upon that world._

_And, worst of all, I actually feel REMORSE for the wound I have inflicted!_

_I am the basest of cowards. I am a fool._

Nevertheless, Nadir Khan was fully clothed and on the street in mere moments, his coat pulled tightly to himself to ward off the cold. His body seemed to have animated itself of its own volition.

His feet tread the familiar worn stones of the street; he did not need to look up to know they took him toward the Paris Opera House.

XXXXXXXXX

Applause thundered throughout the cavernous room as the curtain closed upon the performance of _Faust_. Standing along with his fellow manager, Andre, Firmin added his hearty clapping to those of the patrons that packed every box. A full house. Nothing pleased Firmin more. It seemed that Andre shared the same sentiments, for a giddy grin made his chubby red face look like that of a cherub.

Overall, Firmin was pleasantly surprised. The past few months at the Opera had been a complete and utter nightmare. After the unsavory business regarding the late Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daae, their leading soprano, had been whisked away to the estate of the Vicomte de Chagny. Still believing the allure of the Opera would tempt Mademoiselle Daae to return for the next season as their prima donna, Andre and Firmin had bombarded the servants of the Chagny manor with towering bouquets, premium chocolates, and letters of praise and adoration of Christine Daae's charming voice. Like courting a young woman in love, Firmin had done everything in his power to flatter the girl into reclaiming her place in the Opera with expensive trifles that made a considerable depression in the already waning funds of the managerial office.

In truth, Firmin would have gladly emptied his account, his pockets, and given the very clothes on his person to bring Mademoiselle Daae back. She was a captivating girl – stunningly beautiful, blessed with a talent for music, and surrounded by numerous scandals. She could have sung like an alley cat and the drama she was perpetually entwined in would have still brought patrons to the Opera in droves. There was nothing Parisians liked more than wallowing in copious amounts of gossip, and Mademoiselle Daae provided them with plenty of kindling to add to the flames.

But no matter how fragrant and exotic the flowers, no matter how sparkling and expensive the jewels, no response was heard from the mysterious girl. It was as if the yawning maw of the colossal manor had swallowed her up, never to be seen or heard from again. Soon Andre grew weary with finding novel gifts to flatter the girl with, and Firmin grew increasingly apoplectic when analyzing his remaining funds. Ever unwilling to frivolously throw money away, especially when there was no promise of a return on his investments, Firmin changed his tactics and hunted down La Carlotta.

Her voice was certainly nothing in comparison to that of Christine Daae, but as Firmin was always willing to point out, sometimes art must suffer for the greater good – which in this case was their continued ownership of the Opera Populaire and money in their pockets. A return to the junk – scrap metal – business would not be able to support the lavish living they had become accustomed to.

Unfortunately for the desperate managers, Carlotta had decided to grace the Opera of Rome with her presence, which must have been in considerable need of cast members to hire her. Of course, she did not acknowledge this, chalking her prominent position of prima donna up to her overwhelming talent rather than the prolonged illness of their usual leading lady. Try as they might, no extent of written groveling and praise on the managers' parts could convince the paranoid and superstitious diva to return to Paris, much less to return their letters.

However, the lack in correspondence was not completely indicative of Carlotta's refusal to comply. Andre, ever the optimist, tried to convince Firmin that perhaps Carlotta was so engaged with her new station in the Opera of Rome that she could not find the time to respond to the written pleas of the managers of the Opera Populaire. Firmin, on the other hand, insisted the problem likely had something to do with the fact that for all her pretending to be cultured and intelligent, Carlotta probably could not read a word of French to save her life. And the time before rehearsals began for the next big production was quickly running out. Deciding there was no other course of action, Firmin had gritted his teeth and withdrew the money required to fund a short trip to Rome for himself and his fellow manager, so that their prodigious experience in groveling and foot-kissing could reach its full and sickening potential.

Upon arrival, they had immediately sought out the diva. They had been permitted entrance into her dressing room, and a swift glance around the flower-filled, perfume-choked, fur-and-jewel-bedecked room had informed the managers that the Roman managerial office had discovered and read Carlotta's letters, even if she herself could not. It had been clear they had been doing all in their power to keep their expensive, but indispensable, star with them. Realizing this had simply made Andre and Firmin resolve to perform as no one had before. Words of pure honey had flowed from their lips; they compared her voice to that of the angels, her beautiful visage to that of the goddesses, her regal manner to that of any queen who had ever lived. It had all been quite painful to behold, and it had been made even more so by Carlotta's eventual blunt refusal.

Apparently the death of her lover, Piangi, and the many attempts on her life during her years at the Opera Populaire had somehow given La Carlotta the ludicrous notion that if she returned to work for Andre and Firmin, it would mean her neck in a lasso. When Firmin had lost his patience and informed Carlotta that without a star the only one becoming acquainted with a noose would be himself, the temperamental woman had slammed the door in his face and refused to speak with him again.

With no seasoned soprano to take the stage and no foreign prima donna willing to fill the vacancy so soon after the uproar caused by the insane man masquerading as a ghost, Andre and Firmin had been left with no other choice than to train one of their chorus girls to fill the void. As Andre had pointed out cheerfully, it had worked once before with the discovery of Christine Daae. Maybe luck would smile upon them once again.

What the managers had neglected to acknowledge was that with all the excitement and fear generated from the violent happenings related to the supposed Opera Ghost, practice had been the last thing on the minds of the young chorus girls. They had instead spent their days investing their hard-earned money in amassing a personal collection of trinkets to ward off evil. From coins to wooden rings to horseshoes, the various items had been undoubtedly questionable in their protective nature. Besides, they certainly had not prevented the Opera from being gutted from inside with fire. Of course, no manner of practice could be had without the Opera in which to have it, and thus the girls had become considerably rougher and unpolished in regards to their vocal skills.

After grueling auditions that had done nothing for Firmin but cause him to almost pull his hair from its roots and a vein to protrude hideously from his forehead, the managers had settled on a pretty vision of a girl that would undoubtedly keep the audience's attention with her wide green eyes, charming smile, and ample curves. Her voice was nothing to speak of, but it could actually pass for pleasant in comparison to the screeching of the other chorus members, and most Parisians would not be able to recognize a vocal genius if she came complete with a sign proclaiming her expertise and pedigree. Besides, a private instructor could be found to teach her to develop what skills she possessed…after she had earned the managers enough money to afford one.

And now, thanks to the plethora of affluent patrons in attendance tonight, Firmin was convinced the girl would have the instruction she so desperately needed. The nervousness that had gripped him so tightly that it made his stomach churn was blessedly gone, and a considerable amount of pride replaced it. The Opera Populaire had a literal trial by fire, and had survived. That had to say something of the managerial expertise of himself and his partner, though in Firmin's mind, mostly of himself. Clapping Andre firmly on the back since he could not conveniently reach his own, Firmin smirked down at him.

"You see, my dear Andre? This horrible business is far behind us. The Opera Populaire will rise to a level of glory to rival its past popularity!"

With the foolish grin still on his wide face, Andre clasped his friend's hand in his and shook it fervently.

"We are back in business, Firmin!"

Congratulating each other on their brave endurance through such times of strife and struggle, they followed the patrons away from the stage and toward the entrance hall, enjoying the compliments and smiles the well-dressed men and women directed toward them in regards to the production that had just ended to considerable applause.

The warm glow of the lamplight reflected from the gilded statues in the grand entrance was blinding for a moment after the relative darkness of the stage, but once they adjusted to the brilliance, all eyes collectively turned to fix upon a dark shape on the marble floor of the grand hall.

Gasps and muffled screams rippled through the crowd as those at the front attempted to scramble backward into the people pressing at their backs. Anger and indignation welled within Firmin as he found himself pushed roughly by the confused throng, shaking him from his visions of future performances and increased wealth. He looked to Andre for some understanding of the situation at hand, but a blank look had wiped the grin from his lips.

Realizing he would receive no answers as to the cause of the uproar from Andre, especially considering he was of a smaller stature than Firmin and thus could see even less over the heads of the elegant crowd, Firmin shoved his way purposefully to the front of the writhing mass of people by shouting in an authoritative manner. This both served to part the crowd and to make him feel more confident in himself, though he had no idea as to what sight would await him. Andre followed on his heels like a faithful dog, making use of the path the larger man carved.

"Make way! What is all this ruckus about? Stop this pushing!"

Finally breaching the oppressive mass of bodies, Firmin stumbled before regaining his balance and fruitlessly attempted to straighten his coat and hair, glaring back at the patrons who still paid him little heed. He turned back to see what all the commotion was about.

It was then that his eyes caught the crimson stain on the creamy marble.

A pool of blood marred the perfect beauty of the entrance, its oblong shape still stretching outward sluggishly and consuming the pristine floor like a cancer. Splatters of the same ruby liquid trailed off toward a hallway to the left, leading to the dormitories and dressing rooms.

The chaos reached a crescendo among the patrons as those that had not seen the gore wedged their way to the front, men taking handkerchiefs to their mouths in disgust and women swooning and fainting left and right into men's waiting arms with dramatic screams.

Sensing the rising hysteria in the air and realizing the money that could be lost if patrons were frightened to return to the Opera because of this mysterious pool, Firmin turned toward Andre, who stood silent and dumbstruck, eyes locked stupidly on the puddle of blood.

"Andre," Firmin hissed frantically, "DO something!"

Galvanized into action, Andre turned to face the crowd once more, rising to his full, but not so formidable, height. This was exactly the reason why Firmin needed Andre to aid him in his management of the Opera. While his handling of money was abominable, he certainly knew how to handle the masses.

"I-I had hoped that this mess would be cleaned up before the opera concluded, but I see I was wrong. Julien!", he howled, crossing his arms and looking around expectantly.

"JULIEN!"

A young man who worked after opera performances cleaning up the stage and returning props to their places appeared, skidding into the room looking wide-eyed and bewildered.

"Yes, monsieur?"

Glaring accusingly at him and lifting his nose haughtily, Andre gestured at the blood on the floor with a stern finger.

"What have I told you about wasting the props on your silly games with your friends? You have no idea how expensive that false blood is, and now we'll likely have to order more for tomorrow's performance. Who knows if it will be ready by then! And to frighten our guests in such a way! I am ashamed of you."

Catching on, even though it seemed desperate and unbelievable to his own ears, Firmin strode forward and eyed the boy disapprovingly, his graying eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"This will come right out of your salary, boy," he snarled sternly.

Staring in wonder from the blood on the floor to his managers before him, Julien wrung his hands nervously. It was clear that he, unlike the opera patrons, could discern the difference between real and false blood, having handled the imitation in his workings as a stage hand.

"B-But monsieurs! I swear to you, I did not do – "

_Slap!_

Even over the continued murmurings and exclamations of the crowd about poor help and the immaturity of youth, the resounding echo of the blow could be heard. The young man's words died on his lips as he clasped his cheek and winced in pain. Lowering his hand coldly, Firmin pointed to the crimson pool.

"I will not have you spouting your lies. There are no excuses for this sort of behavior. Now clean this up immediately or I will have you removed."

Tears welling in his eyes, the boy nodded his reluctant acquiescence and rushed off to retrieve cloths and water, shooting a wounded look over his shoulder at the two managers.

Clearing his throat and facing his patrons once more, Firmin bowed formally.

"I apologize to all of you, ladies and gentlemen. These things do happen. I am simply grieved that your delicate senses were abused in such a way with this false alarm. I assure you all, however, that this will never happen again."

There was a collective murmur of polite, if strained, acceptance of his apology as men fanned their ladies or provided smelling salts to bring them back to their senses before the crowd began to slowly disperse. Although they seemingly believed the act they had just witnessed, they still gave the blood a wide berth as they made their way out the towering doors.

The moment the last patron had left, Firmin turned to Andre, his face pallid and eyes wide with fear. Andre's face mirrored his own. It seemed neither could form coherent words. Even if they had, what good would it have done? It was evident that neither had the slightest clue as to what the source of the blood was. Although the patrons could be fooled into believing it to be stage blood, the managers knew better. No false blood could come close to capturing the dark, thick shine of spilled lifeblood.

Juggling a metal bucket and mop in one hand and a hearty wad of cloths under his other arm, the stage boy Julien shuffled into the entrance hall, his head hanging and his cheek reddened from Firmin's blow. Making his way over to the pool, he knelt, spilling a bit of water from the pail as he set it down beside him, and began soaking up the blood with a pristine white cloth. It saturated the fabric, seeping hungrily up it until the fabric was ruby. Discarding the soiled cloth, Julian resumed his task with a fresh one. He sniffled intermittently, apparently still upset at this unearned and uncalled for abuse.

Approaching silently, Firmin laid an apologetic hand on the boy's shoulder, causing him to flinch as if he expected to be struck once more. Firmin didn't move, and beneath his hand he could slowly feel the tension leaving Julien's body.

Not meeting the boy's eyes, clearly unused to offering any manner of apology, Firmin patted his shoulder twice and said gruffly, "I will not take it out of your salary. I know you did not do this."

Wiping his nose on a grubby sleeve, Julien nodded without a word and continued mopping. Fishing in his pocket, Firmin's fingers brushed metal. The clink of coins echoed in the silent entrance hall as he dropped the money beside the boy.

"For your trouble…"

Striding over and grasping Andre firmly by the arm, Firmin propelled his partner forward and proceeded to put as much space as possible between himself and the mysterious and nauseating scene. The two managers retreated to their office to confer.

XXXXXXXXXX

With a shuddering hiss, the rain finally came. It began as a delicate patter, kissing the glass of the window beside Erik's bed in a rhythmic tapping. Instead of waking him, it merely weaved itself among the dream that swirled in his mind. The soft music of the raindrops turned his sleeping mind to the past, to moments of peace that, among the many times he wished to forget, were the memories that constituted his youth.

_The cool of the rain seeped into the room; he could feel it chilling the air around the panes as he sat cross-legged on a chair before the one window in his bedroom, his small fingers tracing the path of the rain as the single drops collected and rushed in miniature rivers down the glass. Closing his eyes, he brought his hands to the sill and moved along it, as if playing the keys of a piano. He had been practicing for weeks. He had memorized the place of every key and the note that accompanied each, which had taken a week in itself, for he was not allowed to come near his mother's piano, her prized possession. He had been required to sneak into the sitting room when she was otherwise occupied, pressing only one key, committing its tone to memory, and rushing out silently before his mother could catch him in the act. _

_But things were different when his father was home. Since his father always had ways of wriggling through the loopholes in his mother's rules, he had invented a game where Erik could sit with him at the piano and learn to play from merely carefully observing the movement of his father's fingers. When his mother left the room, his father would then allow Erik to place his small hands over his father's larger ones, directing his hands along the ivory. Then, technically, Erik would not touch the piano, but could still experience the joys of playing. When Erik's father would return from his travels this time, when his strong hands would lifted Erik's small body and settle him in his lap at the piano, instead of merely directing his father's slender hands through a song by a popular composer, Erik would show him how much he had learned the month his father was absent. He would show him the song he had made, just for him, despite his mother's restrictions. _

_His father would be so proud._

_The staccato commotion of horseshoes on the stones outside called him to open his eyes and still his hands. Peering through the blanket of precipitation, he could see a black carriage come to a halt at the front steps. His heart thumped in anticipation as the door flung open even before the stout coachman could scramble down from his perch and offer an umbrella. The lithe form of his father emerged, ignoring the rain that soaked his suit and made it cling to his body. His head hung and his shoulders slumped in visible exhaustion, and concern etched the features that were not hidden by Erik's mask. But then something caused the man to look upward to where Erik's eager face peeked out the window._

_Their golden eyes met, and his father smiled at him through his weariness, his handsome grin shining and transforming his weary visage. _

_The rain was relatively moderate, but not even a monsoon could have kept Erik from running out to meet his father._

Thunder clapped and growled, shaking the window panes and jolting Erik from his reverie. The skies opened up and the rain fell like a waterfall from the bruised clouds. For a moment panic held him in its grip – the recollections of his childhood sparked familiar feelings of helplessness and fear, disorienting him worse than awakening in a room that was not his own. It was impossible to tell what time it was by looking outside, for an oppressive shroud of thunderheads had smothered the sun, if it was in fact day. The downpour made it difficult to see the houses beyond the glass; everything had become a mass of cold grey. He fought to still his racing heart.

_Calm, Erik. Deep breaths…you are not a slave to your past…_

Sighing in exhaustion and mentally shaking the remnants of memories the dream had stirred within his mind, Erik shifted his body only slightly to look about the room, partly to not draw attention to himself if anyone was watching, and partly because his body was excruciatingly stiff and would not allow any larger movement. New candles had been wedged into the cooling wax pools of their predecessors, casting a soft radiance upon the furnishings. From his current position, lying powerlessly on his back, he could not see all corners of the space, and that unnerved him, but further struggle to turn himself only resulted in a searing pain in his abdomen. Lifting the sheet with trembling fingers and craning his neck to see the extent of his injuries, he gingerly examined his bandages with a delicate stroke. His flesh was tender where he had been stabbed, and even his gentle touch caused a cold sweat to bead on his forehead. However, he could feel the raised ridge of stitches, and there was no blood seeping through the unsoiled white of the wrappings. Judging that his organs were in fact still all accounted for and likely to remain in his body, he relaxed somewhat.

The gashes from the knife on his arm and side were mere annoyances, and nothing in comparison to the nearly-fatal blow that the daroga had bestowed upon him. Curious, Erik wondered why he had not been killed immediately. He was well aware that the daroga knew thousands of ways to inflict instant death; it was a crucial part of the preservation of his life during the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan. Either he had experienced the single most astonishing case of luck in the history of his perilous life, or the Persian had chosen to spare his life.

And Erik did not believe in luck.

The fact that the daroga had not dispatched Erik to the fires of hell was not the only puzzling thing that occupied Erik's mind at the time. Considering he could not even coerce his rebellious body to sit up against the headboard of the bed, it was unlikely that he could organize and execute any manner of escape attempt. He slammed his fist into the mattress in frustration, or attempted to. His arm merely flopped back down to rest by his side, angering him further. Since all he seemed capable of accomplishing at the moment was thought, the events of the past hours flooded back to him in a baffling tangle. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, hoping against hope that with his musings he could develop an understanding of his situation – or, even better, a solution to it.

For a while, the vision of Christine being pulled away by that damned vicomte, tears falling down her flushed cheeks and passionate screams and his name ripping from her throat, was all Erik could concentrate upon. His heart ached at the repeated torture his impeccable memory subjected him to, unshed tears stinging his eyes. Anger and sorrow welled within him, filling him with a new determination.

Raoul de Chagny would pay for his trespasses.

Within his mind's eye, Erik saw once more the despicable man strutting about the Opera with another woman as if Christine had never existed. The mere thought of Raoul de Chagny finding a common harlot to be a suitable replacement for Christine made Erik's stomach roil. Had the damnable man not professed his undying love of Christine? Had they not been engaged? What more could a man possibly wish for, than to have the hand of such a beautiful and talented woman? How could a simpering, false, twittering female ever replace the perfection of Christine Daae? What allure could possibly be found in the blonde wench?

Suddenly he saw those blonde curls, those tear-filled blue eyes, that oval face hovering before him as he blinked painfully in the light of the Opera Populaire.

_That woman…_

_How could I have been so blind!?_

Abruptly his golden eyes snapped open, and Erik recalled himself to his current situation. Fear coursed through his body, lending it the strength it previously could not find, and he pushed himself up with a moan of pain to a seated position against the headboard. Heart pounding in his ears and head swimming uncomfortably, he scanned the room, his golden orbs scouring the darkness for any figure hiding in the dim light. The modest chairs in the room were empty; no one crouched in the shadowed corners. The only sign of recent habitation was a basin of water sitting on a rickety table beside the bed with a damp cloth hanging over its porcelain edge. The grandfather clock told Erik it was well into the evening.

He had slept through an entire day. The knowledge that he had been unconscious for so long made Erik pointedly nervous, for anything could have been happening while he was unaware. And somehow he felt more groggy upon his second awakening than he had upon first conversing with the young woman, making him wonder whether he had been given some manner of sedative while asleep.

Frankly, it was shocking that he had been allowed to live, much less sleep in peace for as long as his healing body required. Though knowledge of his current situation had been elusive upon first awakening in a strange environment with the smoke of a fever dream clouding his thoughts, it was evident now. He was the captive of the conniving woman who had helped Raoul de Chagny in his plot to steal Christine. And he was not pleased by the arrangement in the least.

_I have to escape…I cannot simply wait until this viper's plan for me comes to fruition!_

At first, it had seemed to Erik that the vicomte's appearance at the Opera was mere happenstance, an occurrence that could not have been foreseen no matter how much surveillance he could have made. And of course, Erik had not neglected to wander the hidden pathways of the Opera Populaire, reacquainting himself with each and every corner of the building, perusing the managers' papers to discover which prominent members of Parisian society were expected to attend…He would not have allowed Christine to be subjected to the heartbreak she had endured at the hands of the cold-hearted vicomte if there had been any evidence that something could have gone awry.

In fact, his own ears had heard confirmation of the raving vicomte being confined to a mental asylum not far from the outskirts of Paris. Little Meg Giry, always a sure source for the latest gossip, had been kind enough to whisper conspiratorially with her fellow dancers the night before the opening gala while they huddled together in their dormitory, sipping small glasses of beer that they had bought each other. It had been child's play to lounge among the rafters unnoticed and listen to the chatter of the tipsy ballerinas. Even the managers had expressed relief at hearing that the Opera Populaire was no longer in danger of being filled with the insane ramblings of the vicomte.

Erik had the information. Erik had been certain. And Erik had been wrong.

More than once in his life, people had accused him of being paranoid and raising ghosts where there were none. However, more often than not, being suspicious of people had saved his life.

And Erik knew a plot when he saw one, especially if he was at the center of it.

Clearly the daroga had spent many hours carefully orchestrating every aspect of his confrontation. He had charged little Meg with spoon-feeding Erik false information, knowing he would be listening. He had instructed Raoul to find a replacement for Christine that would incite Erik's anger and emotionally distress Christine enough to cause a scene and reveal their positions in the grand hall, knowing they could not behold such a scandalous show without a response. Then the daroga had to merely follow Erik, who, in his desire to calm the frantic Christine Daae, would be too absorbed to watch his back. The rest must have easily fallen into place.

But why had the Persian let him live? As Erik had concluded before, there was no doubt in his mind that the daroga intended to miss any of his vital organs. Perhaps he had wished Erik to die slowly, as would have occurred if he had not been discovered by the girl. However, it was too much of a coincidence that it had been the young blonde waiting to come to his aid. Wasn't the opera in full force when he had been struggling to the doors? Why had this lady, of all young women at the Opera Populaire that night, been waiting in the grand entrance and not watching the performance of _Faust_?

There was only one conclusion. She had been charged by the scheming Persian to wait. Naturally, the daroga's own presence would have caused distress among any of the Opera's staff or patrons, being covered in Erik's blood as he would have been. And the vicomte would have been rushing away with his rediscovered fiancée, putting as much distance between himself and the dying Opera Ghost. Meg Giry would have been fumbling through her part in the performance, unable to further aid them. It left only one person of the original conspirators as appropriate for the task.

Perhaps she had been instructed to kill him if he managed to crawl from the depths of the building seeking help. But something had gone awry. Either she had been unable to find the courage to slit his throat, her feminine nature loathe to witness such unsavory subjects…

Or she had been told to keep him alive.

What remained of Erik's blood froze in his veins.

_Torture._

Erik was no stranger to the concept. In fact, he had been a prized commodity among the nobles during the Rosy Hours, developing and putting into action increasingly shocking ways in which to inflict the greatest amount of suffering upon a man before killing him. He had been called a demon, he had been cursed, and he had made seasoned men vomit and countless women faint. But he had been paid.

Now, when he found himself on the opposite end of the prospect of anguish, bile rose in his throat. Memories of Mazenderan reared their ugly heads in his mind, and he quickly stifled them before terror could take him in its icy grip.

He had once survived subjugation to his own methods of torture. His own creations had been turned upon him in a manner of cruel and deadly game, one of the many twisted horrors of the Rosy Hours. There was no conceivable way someone could devise a crueler manner of receiving information or causing pain, even if the devil himself tried. It was not pride that made him think so, but cold certainty. Whatever the slip of a girl could conjure up could not hold a candle to the atrocities Erik had experienced.

Erik steeled himself, calming his nerves as he digested the idea of enduring torture at the hands of a mere girl. The young woman had brought him to receive medical attention. She had saved his life only to slowly and painfully take it away. But what could be accomplished through torture? What information could Erik possibly have that would interest the daroga and his friends? Perhaps information was not the goal. Perhaps he was just meant to suffer, to writhe in pain, to wish for a swift end that would never come, to beg for death, and finally to succumb to death's cold embrace.

It was not a pleasant idea. Not when it would mean the de Chagny boy keeping Christine.

Realizing his mind was constructing chimeras and grisly images of his own impending demise, Erik collapsed back upon the bed in exhaustion. No matter what the motivation of the woman in sparing his life, there was nothing he could do to stop her. His muscles were like water, and his head swam just with the effort he had taken in sitting up for so long. His body was far too weak to run from his confinement, much less fight.

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, who had killed men for less than attempting to restrain him, who had instilled fear in the hearts of the members of the Opera for years, and who had caused the bravest of men to tremble was powerless. He was at the mercy of a mysterious woman with uncertain motives, and there was nothing to be done but pass the time in uneasy sleep and build his strength and resolve.

Whatever awaited him, Erik had to be ready.

* * *

**So, poor Erik just gets to wait and imagine all the grisly ways he could die. Yay. Of course things can't happen too fast with him, because healing will take a while. Next chapter we get an idea of how Christine is faring...**

**Thanks for reading, and drop me a line! **


	25. The Death of Courage

**My birthday is tomorrow! Actually, at 12:01 tonight. Nothing like being born at an odd time.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: The Death of Courage**

"No, no…I am very sorry, Etienne, I don't mean to be rude…just one more thing…"

The aged chef rolled his eyes in an irritated manner as Raoul de Chagny leaned over the tray of food he had prepared. Etienne had been cooking for the de Chagnys longer than he could recall; sometimes it seemed like an eternity. Then again, his memory was leaving him, and so he no longer had a mind for much other than recipes. He had prepared every meal for the household back when the halls were filled with the laughter of the Chagny children, before the deaths of their noble parents, before Philippe had been charged with watching over the others, before the girls had moved off in their respective ways to begin families of their own. Having been with the boy through his highs and lows, Etienne knew Raoul well – in some ways better than the boy's father had known him. And Etienne had no tolerance for Raoul dabbling his fingers in food, no matter how important the young man thought himself.

Slapping Raoul's hand away with a knobby hand before he could poke an inquisitive, though to his credit newly washed finger in the broth of the soup, the elderly man scowled up at Raoul. The look on Raoul's face was a curious mixture of embarrassment and indignation, the two fighting for dominance over his features and only achieving a comic grimace.

"I was merely checking to be positive that the soup is not too hot. I do not want Christine to burn herself," he managed, with only a hint of a pout at the rough treatment. Granted, he had become accustomed to being dealt with in a curt manner ever since he had invaded Etienne's kitchen, his domain, the night before.

The older man sighed huffily and crossed his thin arms. Everything about him seemed worn and faded, from his crinkled skin to his whitened hair to his gray eyes fixed below drooping eyebrows. It was evident he had put up with much during his years, and was no longer willing to deal with the impulses of youth.

Telling Raoul so, he added, "And if the soup is not hot to begin with, it will be positively frigid by the time you arrange everything just so on the tray and finally cart it up to the poor girl. Nothing is more depressing than cold soup, except perhaps this infernal rain."

To prove it, he rubbed his arthritic hands together and winced. Raoul chuckled, loosening up a bit at Etienne's inability to maintain a façade of anger.

"Come now, I am not _that _bad. I do not have to arrange everything just so."

The look the graying man fixed Raoul with spoke volumes.

"Well, I suppose I should be off to begin the meal for the people of this house that will actually deign to eat the food I labor over," Etienne said gruffly, adjusting his apron and shuffling off to the other side of the kitchen to bang some pots and pans against each other in his attempt to find the one he desired. Raoul covered his ears against the cacophony, ignoring the biting comment of the old man. It was likely the slightly deaf, overworked cook thought he had spoken under his breath. Either way, there was no use arguing with a stubborn old man over something about which he was technically quite correct. He opted for silence and, while still attempting to smother out the banging with one palm and with the other ear pressed to his shoulder, he balanced the tray of soup on his other hand and sidled past the servant girls that rushed in to help preparations as if the din was a call to duty. One girl who was slightly taller than the others almost received the silver tray's edge straight into her forehead. Raoul believed his ears caught a few very unladylike curses, but he could not be certain due to the fact he had never been pressed to cultivate the art of lip reading.

Uncovering his ears and adjusting his shirt and vest once more, he examined the tray, deemed it must have been jostled in the chaos of the kitchen, and moved everything back into its place.

An embarrassed blush crept onto his cheeks as he realized Etienne had been right.

Taking the tray in both hands, he slowly and painstakingly walked up the stairway, one step at a time, eyes locked on the soup to make sure not a drop would be spilled.

"It's no use, you know."

Turning quickly in surprise, Raoul swung the tray and splattered some soup on the silver. Scowling and muttering under his breath, he stalked into the sitting room he had just walked past and set the food down carefully on a table. With an industrious flourish of his hand, he tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed up the spilled broth with the expensive silk. All the while he never raised his eyes to the figure seated in a high backed leather chair mere inches away.

Fragrant smoke trickled lazily past his lips as Philippe lowered his cigarette and fixed his brother with a piercing stare over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. A book lay opened beside him, its leather cover straddling the arm of the chair and marking where he left off. A decorative tray on the table by his chair was filled to the brim with the ashes and remains of his expensive cigarettes.

When Raoul didn't speak, Philippe removed his glasses and settled them on the book beside him, then took another long drag from his cigarette before blowing out a column of smoke and continuing.

"It's no use. She is not going to eat, no matter how aesthetically pleasing the arrangement of her silverware."

Unconsciously moving to replace the handkerchief in his breast pocket, then eyeing the soup stains disdainfully, Raoul threw the square of fabric to the table with a violence that betrayed the frustration beneath his cold façade. He still did not turn to face Philippe, but it was obviously a futile effort to quell any rising argument. There had been countless quarrels between the brothers since Raoul had returned from the Opera with Christine. Philippe, who had arrived late to the gathering before the production and thus had spent hours of the night fruitlessly searching for his younger brother before returning to the estate, had adjusted almost entirely to the presence of the girl by the next morning. But he was not reluctant to express his keen dislike for the trouble she seemed to spawn.

"You may be my elder brother, and I respect your opinion, but that certainly does not require me to neglect my love for your sake. We are by no means pressed for food. We can spare some soup, even _if _she is too distressed to eat it," Raoul said stiffly through clenched teeth.

Chuckling richly around his cigarette, Philippe nodded, conceding the point to Raoul even though he was unable to see the gesture since his back was turned.

"Yes, but we can spare some sunlight and water, too. Perhaps you should push her out onto the balcony so she can soak up some of this rain, then when the sun shines she can bathe in that, also. Really, what are a few missed meals in the long run? There is no use in getting yourself bothered over a picky woman. She may not be hungry. Or perhaps she simply does not eat. That seems to be the fashion for young women these days. As if they are not human like the rest of us. And there is not much meat to the girl as it is. She is considerably ahead of you in the game. I suggest you skip a few meals yourself and show her you can throw a tantrum, too."

Philippe appreciated his own humor; puffs of smoke emanated in bursts of laughter to reach the ceiling and dissipate about the room. Now undoubtedly certain he was being mocked, Raoul gathered the cooling soup from the table and cast a withering look over his shoulder at his brother that required no words of accompaniment. He would not even dignify those perverse comments with an answer.

"Raoul."

The frigid tone of the older man's voice made Raoul pause, even though his blood still burned with shame and fury.

"If she does not eat, she will eventually starve, and if she dies there can be no funeral here. She is already a dead woman in the eyes of Paris. She has already been forgotten."

Judging from Raoul's gaze, it was evident Philippe had gone too far in his jesting. His tensed body was gripped by anger, but the pain of his heart was reflected in his eyes.

Sighing, Philippe perched his spectacles back upon the bridge of his nose and proceeded to take up his place in the book beside him. Careful to keep his eyes from meeting his younger brother's again, he said casually, "What I meant was…just…be sure she eats."

Though he attempted to disguise it with scorn and derision, a note of concern was evident in his voice.

Raoul relaxed slightly, nodded, and carried the tray to Christine's bedroom door.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rapping of knuckles on the thick wooden door did not surprise Christine. Where once she would have leapt at the prospect of an unexpected visitor, she made no move toward the door, nor did she raise her voice in welcome. She simply sat staring vacantly out the glass window at the darkened sky, her narrow chin propped delicately upon her elbow that rested on the sill. The knock came again, slightly louder as if she was hard of hearing and perhaps did not notice the first time. But she could not be enticed to vacate her post and discover who sought her company. She did not care enough to find out, and she most certainly did not care for company. Besides, she knew who it would be.

The click of the handle being turned alerted Christine to the fact that he was coming in anyway, no matter the cold indifference she showed, and a mild frown of annoyance reflected back at her in the window before she schooled her features. She did not bother turning herself to face him, instead watching his image grow nearer to her in the glass. The mouthwatering fragrance of some manner of savory food reached Christine's nostrils and her stomach reacted in a growl, but not ferociously enough to be heard.

Raoul approached slowly, holding a silver tray. Eyeing Christine's melancholy form for a moment, Raoul finally spoke.

"Christine…I've brought you something to eat."

She showed no indication she had heard him.

Clearing his throat nervously and trying once again, Raoul looked down at the bowl and said sheepishly, "It is just a bit of soup. Nothing very heavy, so if you are not feeling well it should not upset your stomach."

It had only been a day, but Christine had already learned that no amount of heated words would convince Raoul to cease his efforts to feed her. It was not that she enjoyed frustrating the Chagnys and their chef with her blatant refusal to eat. In fact, she had attempted to eat everything Raoul brought her, no matter how extravagant or simple the food. The truth was she could not bring herself to eat it. When she had seated herself before the meal, she had been overcome with a wave of nausea. When the food was removed from her sight, she was tortured by a gnawing hunger. She knew there was nothing physically amiss with her.

But her emotional distress was frankly crippling.

Settling the tray on the small table in the center of the room, Raoul came to stand behind Christine, looking down at her with a pained sorrow in his blue eyes. He reached out as if to touch her chocolate curls, then hesitated and thought better of it.

"My darling, you must eat something…" He said softly, concern lending his voice a heavy note.

Christine turned from her perch on the plush cushions and moved away to put some distance between them, careful to never meet his eyes. She shrugged her narrow shoulders minutely and noncommittally as she brushed past him, showing she was disinclined to listen to his request. She did not pursue the meal, instead seating herself in one of two beautiful, but uncomfortable, maroon chairs on the opposite side of the room.

Christine expected Raoul to react in frustration at her evasiveness, but instead he merely walked over and lowered himself into the chair opposite hers. Christine could feel his blue eyes burning into her, and for what seemed like an eternity she stared at the arm of her chair, idly running her finger along the carved wood.

"Christine."

His tone was not laced with anger, frustration, or anything of the sort. It confused her to such and extent that she looked up and met his eyes. The emotion held within those orbs was unreadable, so much so that Christine was certain he was schooling his features into the equivalent of a blank slate. She, in turn, assumed a neutral expression, though she steeled herself for what would come next.

"Christine…darling…" He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Did that…that man do anything…inappropriate to you?"

In an instant rage flared within Christine's small body, engulfing her thoughts and burning away any conflicting feelings she had been wrestling with in her heart. Clenching her slender fingers into fists in the fabric of her skirt, she glared at Raoul.

_After all this, the only thing that concerns him is whether he can have his perfect doll of a wife!_

She did not stop to consider her words, nor did she take a moment of silence to quell her burning hatred for the man before her.

"If he had, would you throw me out on the streets like a piece of refuse?" She spat, the venom dripping from her words. "Would you find the nearest replacement and forget you had ever known me?"

In a way she wanted him to deny it, to say he loved her and no one else, to explain away the blonde girl she had seen him with as some friend or relative, to justify his part in the harsh treatment of Erik as some sort of horrible coincidence. On the other hand, she almost, in some perverse way, wanted him to agree. If she knew he would leave her, if she was certain he would let her go to discover the fate of Erik, she would have gladly allowed Raoul de Chagny to believe she had been violated. When once her reputation of virtue was of the utmost importance, to be defended tooth and nail, she now realized she did not care in the least if it meant being caged once again in the Chagny estate.

The look of pain that was in Raoul's eyes almost threatened to subdue her. Almost.

His mouth hung slightly ajar as if he had been physically struck, and his lip quivered minutely. Unshed tears filled his eyes, and he sighed brokenly before clenching his hand to his aching heart.

"My God…Christine, my darling…every waking moment you were away from me, I have been tortured with guilt over driving you from my arms."

_If you knew you would be so tortured, then why did you do it to begin with?! _Christine itched to reply in a scathing manner, but held her tongue in order to discover what manner of lies her former fiancé would attempt to poison her mind with.

Running a shaking hand over his face in an attempt to calm himself, Raoul continued.

"Antoinette – I mean, that young woman you saw me with – what I mean to say is that it was not supposed to turn out like it did. You were not meant to see her at all…"

"Of course I was not. Naturally you would wish to hide your secret tryst from me, but clearly you fumbled and overlooked the fact that I might still be alive. How long did it take for you to lose hope of ever seeing me again, to give up? A few hours? Mere minutes?" Christine's voice rose in dark fury as she gained verbal momentum and rose to her feet, her eyes fiery and burning into Raoul as he sat before her.

For a moment Raoul merely gaped dumbly at her, his eyes filled with agonizing surprise. The look he gave her struck Christine like a firm hand.

_Control yourself, Christine. Raoul is not accustomed to being addressed with such malice…he does not know how to defend himself against it, having no such strong words himself. He is not Erik…_

_Erik…_

Her chest constricted painfully as tears pricked her eyes. Feeling a strange mixture of sorrow, resentment, and shame that made her cheeks burn, Christine slowly took her seat once more and waited for Raoul's response in heated silence. At first it seemed he must concentrate all his attention on forcing his lungs to work properly. He swallowed dryly, obviously trying to subdue the lump that had taken residence in his throat, then answered her with his eyes on the floor.

"Her sole purpose was to incite that…that man's anger. Nadir Kahn said he would be driven mad by the sight of…me with another woman so soon. I assure you, Christine," he began, regaining his composure and fervently trying to take her hand once more. She moved to sit back in her chair with her hands folded tensely on her lap, quite out of reach of the vicomte's searching fingers. He retracted his hand as if scalded, then continued in his stammering and disorganized manner. Raoul de Chagny was rarely without words. Discovering her rebuttal of his affection bothered him so greatly, rather than feeling satisfaction Christine only felt a growing queasiness in her stomach.

"I have no feeling for that woman. Had I known _he_ would pull you into this…had I known you would be there, I never would have…but he simply _had_ to involve you when this was between the two of us…"

Christine's cold laughter made Raoul stop short and glance up at her warily. The sound echoed in her own ears; it did not sound like her own voice, and she felt strangely detached from it. In a way, she was. There was a part of her that would forever stand in shock and horror at the manner in which she was treating Raoul, her childhood friend and confidant, the man who was once her cherished fiancé. There was a part of her that screamed in protest against the words that issued from lips ignorant of the way they cut like knives. There was a part of her that warned that once these things were said, once these emotions were acknowledged, there would be no turning back. No way to take back the hurt they caused. No way to return the harmony to their delicate relationship.

But there was also a part of her that knew it must be done, and was only too happy to oblige. She had spent her entire life meekly accepting that which others deemed to be best for her. She had allowed the people around her to make every important decision that had arisen in her young existence. It was easier to believe all choices were not hers; dancing like a compliant puppet to the tune of whichever master happened to be near allowed her to never claim full responsibility for the consequences. And now Christine knew that she could not continue living as a mere chess piece. It had taken an embarrassing amount of time and too many unfortunate and avoidable disasters to number, but it was a realization that came better late than never. She could no longer blame her circumstances on the death of her father, her youth, fate, the will of God, or whatever else her mind could frantically grasp.

And so, Christine smothered the meek, compliant child she had locked herself within and spoke with the confidence of a woman who knew the power of her own choice.

"Oh, Raoul, I do not believe you could have been more mistaken. Who are you to presume to make my decisions for me? Did you believe that taking me by force from Erik would make me see how worthy you are as a husband? In your desperate and selfish attempt to secure what you want, you have only succeeded in pushing me further from your grasp."

Leaning closer to Raoul, closing the space between them in a sinister but confiding manner, she locked her hardened eyes on his wide blue orbs.

"You see, in your seemingly heroic battle to bring me back to you, you have only shown me the darkest, most horrid side of your nature. You used a woman for your own gains. Did you bother telling her your plan, or did you just trust she would not respond to your attentions? Did you even say goodbye to her?"

Raoul did not defend his actions. He lowered his eyes to stare at his hands, which were clenched in fists on his knees.

"You never considered my feelings in the matter before assuming I would be happiest in your arms. Neither did Erik when he deceived me into returning to the Opera," she whispered evenly, her breaths coming surprisingly regularly considering the hammering of her heart.

Fresh tears quivered in Raoul's eyes as he realized the implications of Christine's words. It seemed he had gone dumb in the face of her uncommon candidness and could only brace himself against the arms of his chair for the final blow.

"You have shown me you are no better than he."

Silence followed her words; even the rain appeared to subside in astonishment. Christine felt a swelling within her, an empowerment she had never experienced. It seemed the weight of ten elephants had been lifted from her chest, for in saying the words aloud, she acknowledged what she had only dared to keep locked in her heart. Raoul was not the image of perfection; he was not an angel, he was not her fairy tale prince. He was only a man – a man capable of lapses in judgment, selfishness, and frightening possessiveness to the point of ignoring her feelings and opinions. There was a sad nostalgia for the manner in which she once viewed him; through idolizing her deceased father and connecting Raoul to her memories of the past, she had come to view Raoul as someone sublime and above the vices and failures of other men. But with that aching sorrow came the knowledge that Erik had seemed all the more monstrous in behavior when compared with perfection. Christine had finally acknowledged the humanity of both men, and in a way it was a relief.

Christine's newfound victory over her submissive nature was short-lived. Courage was a difficult thing to cultivate, and she did not have nearly enough practice in the matter. It died quickly, without a struggle.

The sight of tears flowing uncontrollably down Raoul's smoothly shaven cheeks succeeded in squelching her sense of pride in her assertive speech. A crushing sense of shame fell upon her, and her shoulders slumped as she watched him place his face in his big hands in humiliation. He sobbed quietly, trying to hide his tears, though it was a futile effort. The rough shaking of his shoulders gave him away.

_My Lord, Christine! Why did you have to be so harsh? He has never heard you speak in this manner…you never told him…how could he have known the way you felt if you never said a single word?_

Though she was not sorry for speaking her mind, Christine was immensely remorseful for eliciting such a response in the man before her. For all the sorrow he had caused her recently, she could not deny the fact he genuinely would never wish her harm. No matter how fervently she had denied it in despair, Raoul cherished her in his own manner, and she in hers. They had been through too much over the years for it to be any other way.

She came to sit before Raoul's quivering form, her skirts pooling around her as she reached up to brush a few stray strands of blonde hair back out of his face. He did not respond to her touch at first, as if he was unsure she had meant to come in any manner of contact with him, but as she continued to stroke his smooth hair gently and comfortingly he slowly lowered his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and streaming, his cheeks blotched and shining with fallen tears. Christine could not help but remember times during their early childhood – when he had fallen from a tree and broken his arm while trying to retrieve Christine's new kitten, when she had informed him she and her father would be leaving the house by the sea…

Overcome by memories, Christine's slender fingers brushed the wetness from his cheeks in a soothing motion. He seemed to relish the feeling of her cool fingers on his heated cheeks, but he did not lean into her palms as _he_ did…

Christine was glad when Raoul spoke, interrupting her wandering thoughts and drawing her back to her current situation. His voice was punctuated by repressed hiccupping gasps, but he was incredibly even in his tone.

"I know now that you were not happy. I cannot imagine how lonely it must have been, sitting day after day behind closed doors, when you were so accustomed to moving about without a care. But I swear to you, my darling, I did not know. You never told me that you were suffocating behind these walls. I hadn't the slightest clue that you were so entirely unhappy..."

"Perhaps if you had…" Christine began in a stern tone, but Raoul cut her off with a raised hand that trembled, begging her not to interrupt because it was clear he would not be able to muster the courage to continue again.

"I realize any man with the smallest bit of observatory skills could have seen the change that came over you. I know I was blind, Christine. And I am so very sorry. I was only trying to protect you…" Raoul's deep voice broke in a sob.

He stopped himself and took a deep breath, scrubbed at his cheek with the back of his hand, and then looked down at Christine, who waited patiently for him to continue.

"I am young, Christine… We both are. We are still learning about life, and about loving, and about being loved. I made a horrible mistake…I know now that I cannot protect you by keeping you away from the world, because it only hurts you more."

Raoul stopped once more, perhaps to judge the weight his confession had upon the young woman before him. She felt, if possible, more confused than she ever had been upon finding herself once more within the walls of the Chagny home. She had not expected him to meet her angry words with such sadness and repentance. Her eyes remained locked upon him, but a myriad of emotions swirled beneath their chocolate exterior.

Taking a ragged and deep breath, Raoul mustered the will to reach out to take her small hand within his. Making sure he had her undivided attention, he brought her hand to his heart, raising her to her knees and bringing their eyes closer.

"Christine, I am begging you…please forgive me," he squeezed her hand fervently, his voice soft and sincere, his eyes gazing lovingly into hers. But there was an underlying hint of hesitation, as if he expected his apology to be rejected, as if his actions were inexcusable even in his eyes.

She could not maintain the anger she had kept seething beneath her surface for the inconsiderate treatment she had suffered at his hands. The words he had spoken echoed within her mind, and before she could make a conscious decision, her head was nodding in acceptance of his apology. She had forgiven him in her heart, and though she may resist how she felt, she meant it.

"We may have made mistakes, but we can – we _will_ – learn how to work together to make both of us happy."

He pressed her hand once more, but still did not notice the gold band around her finger.

XXXXXXXXXX

Since it is common decency to mind one's manners and be respectful and quiet while in another's home – especially if his home is also his place of work – Antoinette and Gabriel had been certain to constrain their arguments to heated whispers while alone and charged glances when in the doctor's presence. Antoinette knew that upon any evidence of the visitors breeding unrest in his home Dr. Laurent would be more than pleased to send them swiftly on their way. He had made it clear that by roaming the halls of the lower floor of the house, where he based his medical services, the two young people only succeeded in getting underfoot and frustrating the busy man. Also, while the doctor made an acceptable amount of money, the strain of feeding three additional mouths was doing nothing for his financial budget. He had a wife who lived in their upper floor and generally had nothing to do with the clinical ground floor, who, he had on occasion pointed out bluntly, ate like a horse in order to sustain her girth. And he had raised four boys, all whose stomachs seemed endless, forming the idea in his mind that the young people intended to eat everything in his pantry. Though he never directly stated that he would not be able to support the three additional people for long, and though Antoinette fully intended to pay him handsomely, she knew the bald man was uncomfortable with the prospect of their prolonged stay. Her father was an intimidating man, and each hour that his daughter did not return home likely only fed his anger. Therefore, Antoinette was sure to stay out of sight and not make a nuisance of herself by arguing with her coachman while the doctor was home.

However, when the doctor had thrown a large cloak over his bulky form and braved the rain to make routine house calls to some of his more elderly patients, it had not taken more than a few minutes for an offhand comment on Gabriel's part had erupted into something much more fiery in nature.

Ceasing her idle stroll about the halls for a moment, Antoinette spun to face the man trailing after her. Delicate eyebrows knitted in a scowl and small hands on her hips, she glared up at him.

"For the last time, you will not convince me to return home until Erik is in a more stable condition!"

The use of the man's name in such a personal way made Gabriel visibly cringe in disgust, but she chose to ignore his grimace and continued.

"He has been sleeping for hours, and I will not disturb the rest he needs in order to submit him to the hour or more of jostling in a carriage when his body may not be able to cope with it!"

Clenching his teeth and attempting to keep his voice even through the unexplainable irritation of hearing the blonde woman speak of her dark patient, Gabriel pointedly attempted to shift the focus of his argument.

"But mademoiselle, I did not return you to your father last night. He expected you home after the Opera, and I am certain he will be sick with worry for your safety."

Waving her hand dismissively and continuing her stroll about the halls in boredom, Antoinette retorted over her shoulder, "Father will be fine. He worries far too much."

Stalking after her with his long legs, Gabriel spoke boldly, "Perhaps you do not worry enough, mademoiselle."

The young woman stopped and spun on her heel; Gabriel had to step back in mid stride to avoid colliding into her, his gray eyes wide in surprise. Her visage was icy as she once more adopted the aloof demeanor of her aristocratic breeding. They had been close friends through childhood, playing secretly because they knew her father would not approve, and though this had led to an almost informal camaraderie, there were moments when Gabriel was distinctly aware of his station. Like now.

"Do not presume to lecture me. I am considerably concerned. I know by the gravity of my decision you may lose your position; I know my father will likely trap me in my room for the remainder of my life. But I also know that without my help a good man may die."

Lowering his eyes deferentially and making a short bow of his head, Gabriel answered softly and a little stiffly, "Yes, mademoiselle."

Realizing she had stopped not far from the closed door behind which Erik slept, she lowered her voice to a whisper.

"I am going to get a pitcher of water. If you are so loath to have anything to do with him, then you can wait for me out here." She pointed to a chair by the door before heading off to fill a plain porcelain pitcher and find a cup.

Shaking his head determinedly and recovering his resolve, Gabriel's gray eyes flashed stormily. He followed her into the kitchen, where she was rustling through some cabinets noisily in search of a pitcher.

"I will not leave you alone with that man. I do not trust him."

"Gabriel, he has been stabbed! The poor man is not a criminal, but a _victim_," she said huffily, though she continued her chore, reaching on the tips of her slipper-clad toes for a glass cup that rested on a high shelf.

Reaching up and handing her the cup unconsciously, for he would not have helped if he had stopped and considered it was for the mysterious man, Gabriel said pointedly, "Good men are not commonly stabbed in the Opera Populaire. In fact, _no _man is commonly attacked in the Opera. Have you ever wondered if he perhaps deserved it?"

"_Gabriel!_" Her pretty mouth was open in shock at his distinctly unchristian behavior, and she spilled some of the water in her now full pitcher when she spun in horror.

"Stop this nonsense. If it will make you feel better, you may accompany me inside, but kindly keep your wicked tongue to yourself. You will simply distress poor Erik even more with your accusations and dark musings."

Holding the filled pitcher and the glass and carefully making her way back to her patient's room, Antoinette missed the withering glare Gabriel gave her at the mention of the man's name. However angry he was, Gabriel followed quietly and obediently like a spaniel, though he was certain to remain on guard when they entered the room.

There was something about the man that unnerved him, and until he discovered what it was, Gabriel would not even dream of leaving Antoinette alone with him.

XXXXXXXXXX

Truthfully, Meg Giry was a girl given to exaggeration. She had long ago come to terms with her dramatic nature. During the zenith of the Opera Ghost, when the ballerinas had worn so many protective amulets and trinkets Madame Giry had been forced to confiscate them all before each practice or someone would have been injured, Meg had been the first to shrilly attribute any small occurrence to the curse of the Phantom of the Opera. She had a true knack for miraculously creating strife in her daily routine, which was in no way more difficult than the other ballerinas in the corps. It had earned her a reputation for stretching the truth, and thus many of the girls had grown to question her assertions.

But anyone who witnessed the performance Meg gave in _Faust_ the night before would not have objected against Meg's declaration that Christine's drama would be the end of her dancing career. Granted, no one entirely understood what that entailed; they believed grief over the recent death of her childhood companion had consumed a mind that should be otherwise occupied with her role in the opera. What they failed to realize was it was the fact Christine Daae was _alive_, not dead, that caused Meg to stumble and lurch oafishly when she should be moving gracefully across the stage.

The Persian – Monsieur Kahn – had kept his word and informed her of the success of the operation the moment the curtain had fallen and she had run back to her room. Of course, their communication was through a note within an unadorned envelope due to the inconvenience of appearing in person when so much was still left undone. The method had been efficient, but reminded Meg uncomfortably of certain notes scrawled messily in red ink.

It had also meant she had been kept at more than arm's reach from any real danger. On one hand, she appreciated the concern Monsieur Kahn had for her safety. Then again, she had done nothing to deserve his protection or consideration, and she could not smother the nagging inkling that her own wellbeing was not the only motive for keeping her away. Raoul de Chagny, as was expected of him, had learned the art of dueling and fencing at a young age. Nadir Kahn was…well, he was the Persian, the man with the Evil Eye, and there was no knowing of what he was capable.

_And what did I have to bring to the battle? Nothing. Unless the sight of my horrendous dancing would have caused the Phantom to attempt suicide to end the assault on his senses. _

Slamming the door of her room in disgust and shaking herself from her melancholy musings, Meg mechanically stripped off her practice skirt, folded it carefully, laid it upon a chair, and donned a comfortable but relatively plain dress. Gazing at herself in the tarnished mirror, Meg nervously returned to her wardrobe, searching once more for something more elegant to wear. She knew her quest would not produce any results, and so when she reached the back of her small supply of clothing she was not overly disappointed. Shrugging minutely to herself in resignation, she plopped down upon her bed and slid her feet into a pair of worn boots, lacing their delicate strings hastily. Sweeping her blue eyes to the window, Meg marked that the rain had not yet stopped. She hated this time of year; it was still too warm to snow, but when the sun occasionally shined it could no longer cut the frigidness of the air. It was as if the whole of Paris was caught within some meteorological limbo, not yet subject to winter and mourning the warmer days that had passed.

Certain to stop by the coat room and retrieve her thick, hooded cloak, Meg went to call a carriage to take her to the Chagny estate. With the hood pulled tightly around her head to keep the wind-driven rain from seeping in, she directed the coachman to her destination and slipped him more clinking coins than she should have due to her reluctance to wait in the soaking wetness to count change. Climbing in and slamming the door shut behind her, she shrugged out of her damp cloak and placed it on the seat beside her. Though there was nothing to see on the darkened streets but the pooling light of streetlamps, Meg anxiously watched out the window, keeping stock of which houses she knew, which streets were familiar, to judge how much longer she would have to wait before seeing Christine.

She had had every intention of shirking her responsibility of showing up for ballet practice that day and instead taking the first available carriage to the home of the vicomte. Needless to say, her mother had not been particularly receptive of the idea. In fact, according to Madame Giry, Meg's performance – if it could be called that – had been so atrocious that it had shown she could not afford to miss one practice, and thus had been obliged to rehash her entire part in the opera, step by step, until her mother had been satisfied. It had taken hours, and by the time she had been released from her toils, she had been required to quickly pull on her costume and rush to make her cue in that night's performance.

Massaging tired legs with a sigh, she resolved to tell Christine all about the tyranny of her mother. She would understand. She had once been in the very same situation and suffered the same torment – possibly worse, really, because she had not been the best dancer in the corps by any means.

_But at least she can sing. Dear God, that girl they have chosen to replace Christine…the critics will tear us apart because of her! Perhaps if I can convey to Christine the severity of our impending doom, she might find a manner in which to hide me until the whole shameful thing has passed. _

Meg could not help but smile in anticipation. The prospect of having Christine back in the world of the living, of being able to visit her after performances and share the trials and tribulations of life at the Opera, of having someone to listen to her and laugh with her almost brought Meg to the point of tears. She knew their relationship would never be the same as it once had been; Christine was no longer a part of the Opera Populaire, if she chose to take back Raoul de Chagny she would soon be married, and she was therefore in a completely different world than Meg. But she did know Christine would never abandon their friendship of her own free will, and so she did not give up hope for a bright future.

She was also quite curious to know what had happened to her beloved friend. Having once been the leading source of gossip relating to the Opera Ghost, Meg was well aware of the atrocities of which the man was capable. Though Monsieur Kahn had been certain to assure Meg of the safety and health of Christine Daae, Meg was not willing to believe his words until she had seen it for herself. Besides, what did men know of the wellbeing of women? Christine may not appear to be injured, but it was obvious the emotional distress would be overwhelming. Clearly she would need a shoulder to lean upon, and who better to supply it than her best friend?

Of course, Christine did have the vicomte. Meg had almost found it within herself to forgive him for his cold treatment of Christine before she came back to the Opera. Almost. It was not to be misunderstood; Meg had experienced attraction and even love. Just because she had not been engaged did not mean she did not understand courtship. But it seemed Raoul de Chagny had tried Christine's love enough to wear it quite thin. Perhaps his bravery in rescuing her had proven his enduring infatuation and his willingness to change.

Perhaps. She would have to consult Christine to discover the truth.

The carriage lurched to a stop, and Meg donned her dripping cloak once more. Peering out from beneath the hood, she confirmed her destination. The windows of the sprawling mansion were lit with a cheerful glow, fighting back the gloom of the rainy night. The stone edifice looked as inviting as it ever could, she supposed, and grinning happily at the expectation of being with her friend once more, Meg Giry stepped into the rain and rushed to the towering doors. Glancing back to the coachman, she waved him on, letting him know she no longer required his services. If the visit lasted long enough, she was certain Christine would arrange her a room in which to stay the night, and if that was not possible there were always the Chagny carriages to take her back to the Opera. Nodding his farewell from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the coachman flicked the reins and disappeared into the night.

Reaching up and rapping her knuckles on the wooden door loudly, she huddled in the shelter the balcony above provided and waited for one of the servants to answer the door. It took a moment, but soon the latch was turned and the door opened inward to reveal a middle-aged manservant.

"Good evening, I am Meg Giry. I'm here to pay Christine Daae a visit, if you would be so kind as to let her know," She said with a winning smile.

The man looked at her soaked clothing with more than a hint of disdain, as if it was completely uncommon and discourteous to arrive wet at someone's home on a rainy night. It was evident he was reluctant to invite her to wait inside the house, as she was dripping with rain. He must have also made note of her lack of escort and her simple dress, because he did not open the door further to let her pass.

Making a short bow, he said emotionlessly, "I am afraid Mademoiselle Daae is feeling rather out of sorts and needs her rest."

Mildly perturbed that she was not deemed important enough for one of the Chagny brothers to tell her of Christine's position in person, Meg set her jaw and replied in an even, but strained tone.

"I am Meg Giry, her childhood friend, and I am quite certain she will make an exception."

Sighing wearily, the manservant met her eyes boldly and said once more, "Mademoiselle Daae is feeling unwell."

"I have heard she is feeling well enough, and I am sure she will not mind," Meg retorted, making a move as if to squeeze past the man.

He shifted to block her passage.

"I'm afraid Comte Philippe has strictly stated no visitors are welcome. None. At all. The hour is late, and you do not have an invitation from the comte, so I will have to ask you to leave, mademoiselle."

His voice had taken on an edge of annoyance, so Meg matched it. "And _I'm _afraid Comte Philippe does not speak for Christine Daae. If she is truly ill, I can offer my help. And I will not be dissuaded."

They exchanged glares, and when the man realized Meg would not be moved, he glanced behind him as if looking for aid. Deciding he had no other choice, the man told her to wait while he fetched the master of the house. The door slammed in her face, making her jump at the impertinence of the servant. But she waited.

And waited. And shivered within her wet cloak, and shifted from one foot to the other, and listened for any sign of someone coming to open the door once more. None came. Finally she lost her patience and pressed the electric bell to announce her presence. No one answered. So she pressed it again, holding it longer than the first time. Still no answer. Slamming her hand on the door in frustration, she pressed the button and held it, listening to the buzzing echoing inside.

This time when the door opened it was not the manservant, but Philippe de Chagny…with a pistol in hand.

Though he did not take aim, Meg's heart leapt into her throat. The comte's icy blue eyes made her shiver more than the chilly night. He smoothed his moustache and straightened himself to his formidable height, looking down at the girl before him. It was impossible for Meg to tell what he was thinking, but she could assume from his posture and the vein that was protruding from his temple he was considerably angered.

"Mademoiselle, I regret to inform you that we will not be receiving visitors, no matter how tenaciously you hold the bell down," his steely voice sounded strained and weary, as if he had not slept well the previous night, and he smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.

Looking at the shining pistol still hanging from his fingers, Meg pointedly ignored his comment and asked indignantly, "Do you always answer your door with a gun, monsieur? I assure you, I do not intend to try to break into your home by force."

He did not dignify her question with an answer.

"Please do not bother us further."

The door once again closed noisily in her face.

After standing for a moment before the doors, paralyzed with shock at being so utterly dismissed, Meg made up her mind. Something had gone terribly wrong with the plan, and there was no other course of action than to consult the master and creator of the design.

It would be a long and uncomfortable walk in the rain, but pulling the cloak tightly about her slim form, Meg Giry made her way toward the Rue de Rivoli.

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**Slightly longer chapter than usual. Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter and for those who are telling their friends about my story. Nothing better than getting new readers...Let me know what you think, as always!**


	26. Refusal and Reluctance

**Dear Jesus...This would not load for some reason. Why must everything be a struggle?

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**Chapter Twenty-Six: Refusal and Reluctance**

Being an outsider in Paris, though he had likely lived in the same apartment on the Rue de Rivoli for countless years, Nadir Kahn did not appear to have particularly pleasant relations with his neighbors. Meg was not entirely certain which number Monsieur Kahn lived in, considering that had never come up in their brief conversations, and so she had resolved to go door to door asking to be pointed in the correct direction and relying on the people's good nature. Perhaps it was because of the inclement weather and the late hour, but many residents refused to answer her insistent knocking, and those that did usually slammed the door in her face upon hearing who she was searching for. It was evident the people of the Rue de Rivoli were not pleased with being associated in any manner with the man with the Evil Eye. Though Meg herself had once feared the Persian and avoided him as if he were a leper or the devil himself, she quickly grew frustrated at the blatant ignorance and inhospitality of his neighbors. Even if they did not wish to invite Nadir Kahn over to tea, they could at least have the decency to direct Meg toward her destination so she would not have to stand in the rain for any longer than necessary. It did, however, cross her mind that some of the men and women may have been attempting to discourage her from discovering Monsieur Kahn for her own safety, although she could not imagine what they expected to be her fate.

Either way, their concern or reluctance to comply did nothing to improve her mood.

She was soaked to the bone, shaking with cold, and positively seething by the time she came to knock upon the door of an apartment without any visible light coming from within. Meg had little hope that anyone would answer, considering no one appeared to be awake within, but then again the residents could have heard her harassing their neighbors and simply doused the candles in hopes that she would pass them over. She pounded on the door loudly nonetheless, not caring whether she interrupted someone's sound sleep.

The door creaked open on its hinge, revealing a man of medium build with short cropped hair and unusual, but plain, dress. His skin was a darker shade than the typical Parisian, and before Meg could even verbalize a guess as to whom the man was he had bowed politely and taken possession of her slender hand, directing her into the apartment and out of the rain. Her eyes had been adjusted to the darkness of the streets, but even the poor lighting of the streetlamps had cast more illumination than was in the entryway. Fear began to blossom within her as she wondered what consequences would come from entering the home of the Persian. The reserved and withdrawn nature of the man, whom she could only assume was the manservant Darius that Monsieur Kahn had spoken of, certainly did not calm her nerves.

Instead of lighting a candle or lamp, Darius closed the door to keep the wind-driven rain from entering and cast them into almost complete darkness. Where Meg had assumed there was no light coming from any of the rooms, since it had appeared so upon looking at the apartment's windows from the street, she could now see a flickering, rich glow emanating from something in the adjacent room. She made a motion as if to move in the direction of the light before she was halted by Darius' gentle hand on her shoulder. Pausing momentarily to murmur something about hoping she would forgive him for the audacity and closeness of his contact, the man peeled her soaked and clinging cloak from her shoulders and draped it across his arm. Meg, who had only before witnessed the actions of servants and never had any close interaction with one, found it difficult to allow the man to do something she could have easily done herself. Nevertheless, she did not protest and merely looked to Darius to direct her next movements.

"Please follow me, mademoiselle," he spoke quietly, leading her into the adjacent room.

He stopped at the threshold of the space, bowed her into the sitting room, and only entered after she had. A formidable fire was roaring in the hearth, ringed by large plush cushions and two chairs with matching side tables for visitors who were unused to being seated on the floor. Not that it appeared the Persian had many guests, judging by the reactions of his neighbors. Besides for the furniture, which included a settee and another chair in the corner by a small shelf of books, there was not much else to adorn the room. It had an empty feeling that was not necessarily uninviting, but certainly left Meg feeling as if the room was not meant for visitors. She stood by the fire, grateful of the warmth it offered to her chilled flesh, but unwilling to seat herself in the chairs when her dress was dripping with precipitation.

Industriously looping Meg Giry's sodden cloak over a metal screen by the fire, Darius turned to look at the young woman shivering slightly beside him. Taking her arm once more, he gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs covered with lush, but worn and faded, exotic fabric.

Shaking her head, Meg muttered embarrassedly, "Oh, no, monsieur, I would…I am not attempting to be rude, I merely…"

Waving a hand dismissively, but yet somehow still maintaining his servile station, Darius refused to listen to her protests and finally managed to coax her into the chair. Though Meg had conceded to being placed into a seat like a doll, her anger at her dismissal at the de Chagny estate, her long journey through the rain, and the fact that Nadir Kahn was still conspicuously absent in his own home had in no way subsided. Watching Darius to see whether he would fetch his master, Meg waited tolerantly while the manservant stoked the fire and adjusted the floor cushions. When he asked whether she would prefer tea or coffee, Meg lost what little patience she had left.

"Will you _please _go and tell Monsieur Kahn that I am here?" She said pointedly, her teeth clenched in an effort to cut off a more biting comment.

Bowing and averting his eyes in a perfectly servile manner, Darius replied, "Of course, Mademoiselle Giry. But would you prefer coffee or tea?"

"Neither!" She spat fervently, throwing her hands up in exasperation and staring incredulously at the darker man before her.

Bowing once more, Darius silently left the room and walked off into one of the dark hallways, leaving Meg alone to cool her temper… and then wonder how Darius had known her name.

A clock ticked steadily on the wall, then chimed out the hour. It was extremely late, or early, depending on one's viewpoint, and Meg had not realized that trudging through the rain-slicked streets of Paris had taken so long. Perhaps the clock did not keep time correctly. She would not be surprised. It seemed Nadir Kahn did not give much thought to time, considering he still had not bothered to make an appearance. Her cloak had begun to steam faintly as the heat evaporated the rain. It filled the room with a damp and musty smell…or was that her clothing? Either way, it only added to her discomfort. She was no longer sorry that she was ruining a piece of Nadir Kahn's furniture with her muddy and rainy dress.

Though she was seething and offended at having yet to be seen by the owner of the apartment, Meg found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The crackling fire relaxed her sore muscles and cut the chill of the storm outside. The stress of the day had been taxing as well, and her eyelids drooped, bringing the light of the fire in and out of her vision. By the time the front door opened, her head was nodding dangerously. She did not hear the click of the lock, the staccato footsteps of someone entering the room, or the long sigh as someone settled into the chair opposite hers.

"Darius, some coffee please." The deep voice was not raised, but nevertheless it had the same effect as a thunderbolt, jolting Meg from the edges of sleep and making her heart race as she blinked to bring the room into focus.

Nadir Kahn sat slumped in the high backed chair, one leg stretched out carelessly and his elbows draped over the arms as if he had simply collapsed into the seat. Rain dripped down his face and plastered his raven hair to his head, and his cloak was still hanging open about his sodden form. From all appearances he had not even attempted to keep dry. His jade eyes were the only part of him that seemed alive and attentive at all, and they were fixed keenly on Meg.

He sighed again, a long exhalation that was lost as a burning log broke with a thud in the hearth. He wiped a coffee-skinned hand over his face and then slicked back his hair, leaving dark wet spots on the fabric of his chair as the rain slid away from his fingers. He did not, however, make any effort to inquire into her reason for calling upon him at such a late hour. Meg was unsure how to react to this; she did not know what would be more offensive, being completely ignored or this slight attention. It was as if he did not want to put forth the energy to be openly rude by not acknowledging her presence, but still would not go through the unpleasantness of speaking to her. They waited in this moment of indecision, this limbo, until Darius entered with a steaming cup of coffee for his master. As his manservant settled the cup and saucer on the small, and apparently unsteady, table beside Nadir and helped his master shed his clinging cloak, Meg broke the silence.

"Where the hell have you been? Do you know how long I've been waiting?" The bite of anger was clear in her voice, and her unladylike language rent the silence.

Nadir settled back into his chair and sipped briefly from the cup.

His eyes snapped to meet hers, and the animalistic glint in them startled her.

"Do _you _know how long you have been waiting?"

His keen eyes caught the minute blush that flushed her cheeks and the slight movement her eyes made toward the clock on the wall. When she did not answer, he relaxed his tensed muscles and continued in a smoother tone, his steely demeanor melting now that he had steered the mood of the conversation in a different direction.

"I do apologize, mademoiselle. I was not expecting a visit from you. Or anyone, for that matter," a rueful grin tweaked the corners of his mouth upward, "As you can probably imagine, I am not the most popular of men."

Meg clenched her jaw and nodded curtly, which was the most she could manage without sparking more angry dialogue. Taking another drink of black coffee, Nadir looked toward Darius, who hovered in the background dusting the book shelves with a cloth in an attempt to appear occupied while still listening to the conversation.

"Darius, why does Mademoiselle Giry not have a drink to warm her?" Nadir's voice held a hint of exasperation, as if he expected more from his servant.

Without a word, Darius bowed himself out of the room and bustled into the kitchen before Meg could fully voice her complaint.

"I did not want anything to drink…I already told him…"

Shaking his head wearily, Nadir gently placed the cup back on the saucer with a soft clink of china.

"I know. I was simply hinting that his presence in the room is no longer required." He massaged his temples and closed his eyes briefly. "He is a good man, but rather overprotective at times."

One emerald eye opened under an arched eyebrow, "But if I have not missed my guess, you don't have a knife or pistol hidden beneath those skirts."

Meg Giry became uncomfortably aware of the manner in which wet clothing has a habit of clinging to one's curves. At first she was indignant, but the ghost of a smile on Nadir Kahn's lips made her realize he meant no harm.

"Do not change the subject, Monsieur Kahn," she said, brushing off her embarrassment with deadly seriousness. "I do not know where _you_ have been, and I do not know if I wish to hear it. But I have been to Raoul de Chagny's home, and I have much to ask you."

Nadir Kahn took this moment to drain the rest of his cup of coffee, as if he desperately needed the boost of energy to deal with the woman before him as Meg recapped her chilly reception at the Chagny estate. When she had exhausted herself of indignant comments and very unladylike curses, Nadir crossed his legs loosely and leaned back in his chair, his fingers resting together in a steeple before his lips.

"And what do you propose I should do about the situation, Meg Giry?"

His tone was not defensive, and he arched a dark eyebrow inquisitively. Slapping her hand down on the rickety table beside her chair hard enough to make it groan in protest, Meg stood in exasperation.

"I _propose_ that you talk some sense into that man! You were the one who insisted Christine stay with him, and now he has locked her up just as securely as the Phantom of the Opera – I mean, Erik – that _monster_ had!"

His lips a thin line of concentration, Nadir Kahn appeared to be engrossed in studying the crackling blaze within the hearth for a moment. Chest heaving with emotion, Meg stared down at him with cold blue eyes, waiting for his response.

He sighed.

"I know."

The clock ticked on the wall, making the silence between the two people painfully obvious. The fire hissed as rain trickled down the flue and dripped on the logs.

"So that is it? You are just going to allow Christine to move from one captor to the next, when your hands placed her back within the vicomte's grasp?" She stared disbelievingly down at the seated man as he sighed again.

"Mademoiselle Giry, you must know that I did not intend for things to have ended in this manner. I had no choice but to act. Erik had gone too far - "

Meg paced before Nadir, her fury needing some physical outlet other than violence toward the man before her. Her wet clothing made a muffled whisper as it weighed heavily upon her, but she ignored her discomfort in her anger as she waved her hands expressively, a testament to growing up in the theater.

"And now Raoul has gone too far! This is insanity! Christine is not a doll – some pretty plaything to be passed from one hand to the next! By trying to shape her fate you play at God, and do so poorly!"

Meg stopped her frantic pacing, squaring her shoulders unconsciously as she waited for the man's response. The words she had spoken were true, and certainly what she believed, but she was not by any means dense. She knew her candid words could spark a blaze within the Persian and cause him to display a side she had only heard rumor of. In a way she welcomed his anger, or any sign of emotion that would show her he indeed _felt _something.

But instead of becoming heated and violent, Nadir Kahn merely stroked his neatly trimmed facial hair with lean fingers. In the light of the fire, Meg could see the whiter flash of scars on the dusky skin of the Persian's hands. Idly she wondered how she had not noticed them before…and how he had received them. There was too much about the man that she did not know. He was a monster in his own right. She had clearly had a momentary lapse in judgment when she chose to follow his preposterous scheme to rescue Christine. She had placed her trust in a man she did not know – a man that did not appear to care about the fate of anyone but himself.

It was a mistake that she vowed not to make again.

Seeing that he was not responding to impassioned words and accusations, she made an attempt to calm herself. Taking her seat once more, she perched on the edge of the chair and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. Fixing the silent man before her with a glare that would have made any normal man squirm, Meg spoke in a quiet, but suspicious voice.

"How do you know so much about the Phantom?"

Emerald eyes snapping up to meet hers, Nadir's body posture mirrored his thoughts. His shoulders squared as he sat straighter in his chair and gripped the arms, making his hands look like claws. A muscle in his jaw twitched visibly.

"What are you implying?" His eyes narrowed dangerously, and Meg's heart lurched as it skipped a beat in barely restrained fear.

She managed to maintain her icy demeanor as she retorted, "Well, you certainly seemed to be on close terms with the man. But you betrayed him and played the lead role in destroying him. And now it appears you do not approve of the vicomte's actions and refuse to take responsibility for your part in the situation. It seems your loyalty is something that can be swayed by the slightest breeze."

Standing in a swift motion, Nadir took up a place closer to the fire, leaning his elbow on the mantle. His face in profile from Meg's view, she could discern minute wrinkles at the corners of his mouth as he frowned.

"I do not require you to cast light upon my every fault. If you cannot understand my dilemma, I shall expound upon it."

Turning to face the woman seated before him, and throwing his face further into shadow as the firelight could no longer touch it, Nadir continued.

"I do not expect you to understand, nor do I ask that you respond in any way…with pity, or anger, or judgment. It is not your place to pass any sentence or absolution on what I have done. I will face judgment soon enough."

Meg's heart jumped to her throat. For some inexplicable reason, the Persian's last statement had a sense of imminence to it, and a feeling of finality that made her blood run cold. While he might simply mean that his actions would be discovered and dealt with by the Parisian police force, Meg Giry had the distinct impression that Nadir did not speak of worldly judgment.

Eyeing Meg to be sure she would not interrupt, Nadir continued.

"How I know Erik is none of your concern. You have never been to Persia, and therefore cannot appreciate the history of Erik's life. Nevertheless, suffice it to say our relationship was never one of comfortable friendship. I doubt any man can boast of sharing complete trust with Erik. But I can say that I have sat with the man, and I have shared in his pain, and been betrayed by him, and returned in kind."

Seeing that Meg was raptly listening, even though confusion etched her face, Nadir rubbed his hands over his jaw, which boasted a considerable bruise, and cleared his throat as he fought off the emotions that resurfaced upon speaking of Erik's role in his past. His voice still neutral and his face showing no emotion even though every single ounce of pain he had suffered at the hands of Erik felt new and fresh, Nadir continued.

"I will not tell you the circumstances surrounding it, because it does not concern you, but I left Persia in pursuit of Erik. And I had every intention of killing him," The coldness to his tone made Meg shiver visibly, and he glanced back at her momentarily and smiled grimly.

"Yes, I know you shudder at the thought, but killing a man is not a difficult thing. I believe we are born without regard for one another, and taught to respect the life of men other than ourselves. When you can overcome that trained aversion to it, it is a simple matter. The first kill is traumatizing. The rest…well, after a time you become desensitized to it."

Whether from fear or disgust, Meg Giry had turned pale and had begun to perspire slightly, giving her face an ashen appearance. Despite her obvious distaste for the topic of discussion, she gestured weakly for him to continue.

"As is apparent, I could not kill Erik then, and I could not kill him now. I cannot explain why, because I do not understand it myself, but I could not kill Erik."

Eyebrows knitted in confusion, Meg spoke hesitantly, "You could not kill him now? Do you mean to say… I was under the impression…"

Self-loathing drawing the corners of his mouth further down and adding venom to his words, Nadir replied, "No. I could not make the killing blow. If he is dead, it is due to his inability to trust mankind. If he found help soon enough, he would have had a fair chance of survival."

Pausing for a moment to roll up his wet sleeves and expose his dark forearms to the heat of the fire, Nadir confessed with a shrug, "I suppose I have, in some fashion, killed him. Knowing that his only hope for survival was appealing to the goodness in men, and knowing he would never do so, I have certainly had a hand in it."

At first Meg entertained the ludicrous notion that somehow if Erik was alive, Christine would be saved from her current captivity. Her logic quickly squelched that notion, considering Erik himself had been quite prone to locking Christine away. And in all likelihood, as the Persian said, Erik was dead.

Desperate to find some aid in releasing Christine, Meg stood and grasped the fabric of the Persian's shirt in her fingers to pull him from his silent reverie. Turning his head to look at her hand, he raised his eyebrows minutely.

"Nadir…I do not care what has happened in the past, and I do not wish to further harass you for the plan not working out as I had hoped. All I ask is that you help me to free Christine. She is a woman, not a slave, and she deserves to make her own decisions."

The supplication in her tone did nothing to move the man before her. His eyes hardened, still a beautiful shade of jade, but no longer the soft pools they had been before. He had raised his guard once again, separated him from her pleas and efficiently closed the only path Meg had seen to helping her friend.

"No."

The swiftness of his reply sparked Meg's anger, and she released his shirt and closed the space between them, her blue eyes narrowed.

"Do you mean you do not care what happens to Christine? _You _are the one who put her in this situation, and it is your duty to fix what you have done!"

By this point, Meg had Nadir pressed up against the mantle, his clothes smoking faintly as they dried in the close proximity of the heat, her index finger jabbed into his chest. Nadir gazed evenly down at her, no more alarmed or incensed than if they had been sitting in their vacated chairs, discussing the weather over tea.

"I understand that it is my fault. I acknowledge that it was due to my rash decision to meddle with fate. But it seems that no matter how I try to change the course of things, to make things right, it turns out for the worse. Fate has an odd manner of ignoring our efforts. And it is because of this that I will not interfere. I have done enough. And I refuse to be the harbinger of sadness and despair again. I will _not_."

By the end of this, Nadir's eyes had a glint to them much like that of unshed tears. His voice had dropped to a mere whisper, but he still gazed at Meg steadily. It was both infuriating and heartbreaking, and in her uncertainty Nadir slid from beneath her accusing finger and settled himself back into his chair, his head in his hands.

At first she thought he was crying, but Meg soon realized that the movement of his shoulders was due to deep and even breathing, as if it was monumentally important to fill every inch of his lungs with air. It was impossible for her to understand this man, and eventually she gave up and flopped weakly in the chair across from him.

"So. What will you do?" she asked, resignation weighing her down and making her shoulders slump in a manner that would earn a stern reprimand from her mother.

Sitting back in his chair and resting his elbows on the arms, once more the picture of relaxation, Nadir said flatly, "I will return to Persia. There is nothing for me here. There is no reason for me to stay."

"And you have something there? Some home to return to?" Meg asked, curious and concerned despite his blatant refusal to help her.

He smiled. But there was only sorrow in his eyes.

And that was the end of their discussion.

"Although I am afraid our acquaintance ends with disappointment on your end, I am pleased to have met you, Meg Giry. I am sure we will not meet again. May fate smile upon you always."

Though his tone suggested genuine friendship and sadness at their parting, Meg could do nothing more but gaze at the man before her in morbid fascination – this wreck of a man who had the fighting spirit beaten out of him by the world.

And although she could never understand what he had been through, Meg would never be able to forgive him for giving up.

She stood, retrieved her cloak from before the fire, wrapped it about her shoulders, and made her way out the front door and into the night without a word.

XXXXXXXXXX

The sound of a turning doorknob woke Erik from his slumber. Having realized the improbability of dragging himself from bed, making his way to the door, and locking it for privacy, he had simply resolved to rest as lightly as possible. Years of sleeping on the streets, having to always be prepared for the passing thief or policeman seeking to rid the city of urchins, had forced Erik to cultivate the ability to receive most of his rest in short and shallow naps. While it was not exactly the most restful and recuperative sleep, it did allow him to wake quickly, and it also had the additional benefit of keeping dreams at bay. It seemed his wounded body promoted a feeling of unease in his mind, which led to frightening memories resurfacing and working their way into his subconscious in the form of nightmares.

And God knew Erik had enough to deal with without the torment of dreams.

Including, incidentally, the young woman who entered the room with a pitcher and glass in her hands, still wearing the bloodstained and wrinkled gown she had been wearing since bringing Erik to this place. And the sullen-looking curly haired servant who followed her, closing the door with considerable banging that surely would have woken the dead and earning him a stern look from his mistress. The woman hissed something at the tall man that Erik could not quite make out, to which he merely shrugged in response, a look of stubborn resolve on his features. A sinking feeling gripped Erik as he watched them make their way toward his bed out of the corner of his eye, the servant trailing the girl like some manner of bodyguard. Though neither appeared to be carrying any instruments of torture, the prospect of being trapped in a room, confined to a bed, when he was still unsure of their motives or intentions made Erik dreadfully uneasy. Instantly his mind conjured any manner of poisons that could be contained within the innocent looking pitcher, and the numerous gruesome deaths that would be possible with a mere sip from the liquid within.

For a moment he considered pretending to be asleep, so as not to be made to drink from the cup, but when the young blonde's eyes met his he knew there was no point. Besides, he was not certain he had the courage in himself or trust in the woman's charade to close his eyes and leave himself open to any kind of attack. Better just to brace himself and face possible doom with open eyes.

As the young woman approached, Erik's instincts awoke within him and he impulsively tried to scramble away from her, to get into a seated position, to free himself from the constricting sheets, anything to improve his chances of survival. Since his strength had by no means returned to him, it was a fruitless and sorry attempt to shift his weight, and it must have appeared to Antoinette – yes, that was her name – as an effort to sit up and greet her properly. Scurrying to place the pitcher and glass on the bedside table, she perched on the edge of his bed and extended her small hands.

"Oh, no, monsieur. Please do not overextend yourself. I understand you are still quite weakened, so I do not expect any formality. In fact, I will not allow it," Antoinette said with a smile, placing her hands on Erik's bare shoulders and pressing him gently back into the pillows.

Erik's exposed skin crawled under her light, warm touch, and his sentiments must have been translated in some small way to his expression, for upon looking at his face Antoinette pulled away with a blush of embarrassment. He relaxed visibly as her hand moved from his chilled flesh.

"I am sorry…did I hurt you? I apologize. I simply did not want you to exert yourself so soon after your injury. You were not supposed to live, you know." She said, wringing her hands in obvious distress.

The last statement made Erik's heart stop in his chest. Whether she had meant her comment as recognition of how grave his wound was or as a hint that she would soon rectify the mistake of allowing him to live was uncertain. Either way, if she cared to finish the deed and lay Erik to rest for good, he was powerless to stop her - especially since she was not alone. The man behind her scowled down in unbridled hatred, which was the only genuine emotion that Erik could detect. The woman may have been attempting to lull him into a state of false security with her façade of concern. It was undeniable, however, that the loathing the servant boy had for Erik was quite real, whether Erik could justify its origin or not. Oddly enough, the young man's scowl seemed to increase in intensity the more Antoinette interacted with Erik.

However, Erik had been prepared for violence, so the ill will directed toward him was easier to accept than the actions of Antoinette. He had neglected to steel himself for the skillful show the young woman was performing. In what little experience he had with womankind, Erik had discovered that behind any sign of compassion could be discovered a motive – and in many cases, an unsavory one. And until he discovered what that motive was, he resolved to remain silent and uncooperative.

Pointedly ignoring the man hovering behind her like a vindictive ghost, Antoinette retrieved the pitcher and glass from the bedside table and poured, careful to not spill a drop. The liquid cascading down into the cup appeared clear and colorless, and from all appearances to be water, but Erik knew countless colorless poisons that would kill a man in minutes. Eyes riveted on the cup as it was brought to his hand, Erik barely heard the girl when she asked him a question.

"Monsieur Erik?"

His golden eyes snapping up to hers, Erik gave her a quizzical look that could either be interpreted as incredulity at being expected to drink something from the hand of someone he did not trust or an invitation to repeat her question. Antoinette took it as the latter.

"Can you hold the glass yourself, or shall I help you?" She asked, her tone implying that she would not begrudge giving him any help he needed.

Realizing he was expected to give some answer, Erik worked moisture back into his dry mouth and licked his lips, desperately casting about his brain for an excuse to not take the proffered poison.

His voice came more hesitant and weaker than he had hoped, belying some of the fear and panic he was feeling as he said, "I do not know if I should. I…do not know if I could keep it down…"

Sympathy softening her features, Antoinette smiled in a heartening manner, though her warmth was lost on Erik in his silent battle for life.

"I know, monsieur, but you should really try to drink a little. It is just water, and you need to drink plenty of it if you are going to heal."

She nudged the water closer to Erik's hand, and as his skin touched the cold glass his fingers twitched unconsciously. He must have pulled a face, for Antoinette patted his arm reassuringly.

"It is fine if you cannot keep it down. You should give it a try, anyway."

From behind her, the young man mumbled something along the lines of refusing to be the one to clean up if the water made a second appearance. Antoinette turned from Erik momentarily to frown ferociously at her servant, silencing him efficiently and causing him to hang his head in momentary defeat.

When she turned back to Erik, she scooted herself closer to him and helped him to awkwardly struggle into a sitting position, the blankets falling to his waist. A muffled growl from the curly headed servant showed how inappropriate he thought the situation to be, but Antoinette either did not hear or ignored him as effectively as she had ignored Erik's protests. When she brought the glass to his lips, Erik peered frantically over the rim at her. She smiled and nodded encouragement.

The liquid had no scent to it, and even on close inspection was entirely colorless. But Erik had used an arsenal of poisons in his lifetime, and knew death did not always have a telling characteristic. Even so, his mouth felt as if he had sucked on cotton, and his throat was burning and sore. His body told him to drink from the glass, and not only to sip, but to gulp the contents down as swiftly as possible.

"Go on. You need to drink."

Though his mind screamed for him to knock the glass from her hands, Erik's body rebelled against his wishes. His own hands reached up and took the cup, tilting the wetness over his tongue and down his throat in a blessed waterfall of coolness. Realizing what he had done, he almost threw the glass in his effort to remove it from his lips. His mouth slightly agape and taking gasping breaths as if he expected the constricting pain of death, Erik waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened. Deciding that if it was in fact poisoned, it would be worth a slow death later to have blissful relief now, Erik brought the glass back to his parched lips and proceeded to take down the entire contents of the cup in as few gulps as possible.

"Ah! You should not…if you are not feeling well…" Antoinette protested weakly, raising a hand halfway as if to stop him, but giving up and letting it fall back to her lap as Erik's eyes widened and he dropped the empty glass on the bed.

He clapped his hand to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and hunching over as a wave of nausea overcame him. Momentarily his heart tried to beat out of his chest at the idea of dying from poison he had not only willfully drank, but savored every drop of. Then he realized it was not poison at all, but his own eagerness that had caused him such discomfort. Wincing and blanching visibly at the prospect of what she was about to witness, Antoinette brought her own hand to rest on his shoulder, rubbing it lightly in sympathy.

"I did try to tell you…I thought you would know not to drink it so quickly…"

Erik was too occupied in mastering the meager contents of his stomach to shake off her hand. Sweat beaded on his brow with the considerable effort of not being sick in his own lap. Though he could not see it, Erik could hear the smirk in the servant's voice when he spoke.

"You might want to step away, mademoiselle. He does not look so well."

"Gabriel!" Antoinette sighed in exasperation, though it did nothing to curb the young man's glee at the focus of his hatred being in such discomfort.

Somehow Erik managed to glare at the impertinent boy, though his eyes watered. Apparently some of the venom he intended to convey was understood, because the young man's gray eyes moved to focus on the floor as his grin slid from his face. When he came to his senses and realized he had just given ground to his enemy, Gabriel shook himself and glowered back with more intensity than ever.

But Erik's attention was already directed elsewhere. Antoinette retrieved the fallen glass, coming uncomfortably close to Erik's leg, and though she had not poisoned him, Erik was not entirely certain that she did not still have some plan. Not being slipped deadly toxins had only served to increase Erik's suspicions that her goal was to torture him…or at least to keep him alive until he could be handed over to more capable hands. Therefore, any motion she made toward him caused him to wince and balk like a nervous horse. Apparently Antoinette took his reactions as embarrassment at being half undressed and in such close contact with a woman, because she helped him lay back down upon his pillows and covered him up with the blankets.

She cleared her throat and averted her eyes modestly, but spoke reassuringly, whether to convince herself or Erik of the truth was questionable.

"You do not have to be embarrassed or ashamed, monsieur. I have had some training in the medical field, and you are not the first man I have seen in some state of undress."

When Erik raised a puzzled eyebrow, she became flustered and began twining her fingers in the tired fabric of her skirt.

"Well, I mean, what I meant to imply was that I have had some experience in treating wounds, and…you know what I mean!" A heated blush spread across her face, turning her cheeks bright red as she threw up her hands in exasperation.

Then she realized she had been almost yelling, and quieted down, folding her hands in her lap and looking contrite.

Gabriel snorted derisively.

"Mademoiselle, I hardly think watching Dr. Laurent treat a few men counts as medical experience. And in all seriousness, this is hardly a situation for a lady like yourself to be in. Leave his care to the doctor."

He ended his dialogue with a note of strained pleading in his voice, and Erik received the distinct impression this was a conversation that had already run its course between the two young people. His assumption was proved correct when Antoinette spun to face Gabriel, her previous shame forgotten.

"Gabriel, you know I cannot do that. And I refuse to argue this further when it will serve no purpose but to upset our patient."

Erik could not help but to allow the ghost of a smile to brush his lips as the servant reluctantly complied, and even made as if to leave the room. Upon fixing his gray eyes on Erik's smug face, the young man chose to stay and crossed his arms in defiance. However, he did not reply to Antoinette's scolding with heated words of his own.

Resolving to ignore the surly young man, Antoinette turned once more to face Erik, and he swiftly schooled his face to neutrality.

Sighing, Antoinette murmured apologetically, "I am sorry about that. Gabriel means well."

Somehow Erik doubted that, based on the look of pure malice directed over the young woman's shoulder and toward him.

When it was clear Erik would not respond Antoinette tilted her head in curiosity.

"Had I not heard you speak before, I would think you had lost the ability," she jested gently. "I understand, though, monsieur. I am sure all of this must be considerably overwhelming."

"Yes…considerably," Erik mumbled, but even that small response made a smile spread across Antoinette's face.

"I suppose I should let you know that you will not have to be confined to this room for much longer."

At this Erik perked up, his eyes fixed keenly on hers for any sign of hidden deceit or ill intent. He could not find any, but it would not be the first time Erik had been tricked by a pretty face. Nevertheless, he could not help but feel some blossom of hope at the prospect of freedom. Some of that sentiment must have translated to his pale face, because Antoinette patted his arm and continued.

"Right now the doctor is on call. Some of his more elderly clients suffer in this dreary weather, and so he is making his rounds to their homes. When he arrives back, I will introduce you to him. He is the man that saved your life…but he has informed me that it will still be a long road to recovery."

Erik's heart sank as he digested those words. _A long recovery. How long? Christine…_The longer it took to heal, the longer the vicomte had with Christine. And that was simply unacceptable. His features darkened as he frowned, and Antoinette instinctively brushed a stray lock of hair from his face, calling him back to the present.

"Do not worry too much, monsieur," she said comfortingly. "You were, by the doctor's own words, never supposed to survive the night. And you have. Perhaps God is on your side."

"Perhaps."

_Or perhaps God has a fate worse than death waiting for me._

"When the doctor is convinced it is safe to move you, he is allowing us to relocate you to my home, where I can attend to you until you are healed."

Gabriel laughed coldly, "Oh yes, your father will be thrilled with that arrangement. And do not deceive the man. Plainly speaking, the doctor needs this room for his real patients, and if Mademoiselle Antoinette was not willing to take you in, it would be back to the streets with you…unless your memory has returned and you can tell us where your home is…"

Gabriel's tone made the tiny hairs on the back of Erik's neck stand on end, and he bristled with a mixture of anger and surprise at the young man's refusal to believe his carefully crafted lies.

"Unfortunately, monsieur," Erik said silkily, "My memory has still not returned to me. I am very sorry. And I do not wish to burden mademoiselle with my presence at her home."

Gabriel smiled knowingly, but the showing of his teeth came off more as a snarl.

"Oh yes. Somehow I knew you would say that your memory was still gone. What a shame."

"It _is_ a shame, Gabriel, and by God, if you do not hold your tongue I will be forced to send you back home to deal with my father alone!"

Her display of anger stunned both men and broke them from the challenging glares they were exchanging. Gabriel backed down visibly, taking a few steps away from Antoinette and averting his eyes. Though the lanky young man towered over her sitting form, it somehow seemed that she loomed over him with her presence.

Pointing at a chair in the corner of the room with a slender but firm finger, Antoinette said sternly, "Now sit down and wait for me to finish speaking to Erik."

Whether he was more hurt by being ordered to sit or by her use of Erik's name, Gabriel's gray eyes were downcast as he slinked over to the chair and sat like a scolded spaniel. He waited there, sulking, until Antoinette once more turned to address Erik.

"As I was saying…you do not have to worry about being a burden or anything of that sort. And to be perfectly honest, Gabriel is correct, if extremely blunt and unkind." In the background Gabriel hunched lower in his chair. "The doctor does need this room for his other patients. And if you can tell by my unfortunate state of dress, I have not yet made the journey back home, so I have not been able to repay the doctor for his kindness in treating you. I would rather not impose on him for much longer."

Though it could be possible that Antoinette spoke the truth, Erik could not help but think that perhaps a darker fate awaited him at her home. The prospect of staying in this place – the doctor's home, or office, or whatever it happened to be – was not a thrilling one. But as of yet, Erik had not been harmed while here, and that alone made it appear considerably more safe than an unknown location where anything or anyone could be waiting for him.

Paranoia and his drive for self-preservation pushing him to find some way out, he took Antoinette's hands in his own for emphasis and said, "No, mademoiselle, I will be fine. I am sure once I can leave this bed, my memory will return, and I will no longer have to bother you with my presence."

It was a feeble effort, and Erik knew it. But he had to try. His own life was completely out of his hands, and despair flooded his veins like icy water as Antoinette shook her head stubbornly.

"No, Erik. I cannot allow that. You are far too weak, and it will likely take weeks or more for you to heal. And since the doctor cannot house you for much longer, I do not mind taking on the job."

She flashed him a dazzling smile, "And perhaps we can speak more of you – and your past, and how you came to be at the Opera Populaire. Maybe it will help you to remember."

Whether from exhaustion or desolation, Erik could no longer muster the strength to speak or to even keep his eyes open. Seeing how he began to sink into slumber, Antoinette brushed her fingers gently along his left cheek before calling softly to Gabriel. He rose and followed her out of the room, but not before casting a suspicious glare in the direction of Erik's bed.

Second-guessing every word, searching every glance for hidden meaning, and wincing at every movement of the young woman and her servant was undoubtedly taxing. Though it was against his nature to believe in the genuinely good nature of any man or woman, a nagging thought tugged at his mind before he drifted to sleep.

Perhaps, against all odds, this woman truly wanted to help him…and not for any mysterious reason, but simply because he was a man in need.

Erik was too unaccustomed to the idea to receive any solace from it.

Besides, if she knew who he was, and what he had done, there was no chance in heaven or hell that she would give him aid.

Best now to rest, to regain strength, to plan escape...and most importantly to keep Antoinette unaware that she harbored a monster.

* * *

**Working working working. On the next chapter, that is. School starts up the 26th, and I have so much packing to do! Second year of college. Hope it will be better than the first. Lots has been happening...all the people I love are going off on their separate paths. It's both interesting and completely frightening to see where life takes people you've known and lived with for years. As always, let me know if you have something to say!**


	27. To Dream

**Gasp. An update so soon after the last? Scandalous. I know. I've been sick at home for a week, and this is what happens when I have nothing else to do. I'm also either suffering from insomnia or my body is putting forth its best effort to make me nocturnal. It's a coin toss, really. And evidently sickness plus no sleep equals an update. Who knew?**

* * *

As a child, Christine had never been particularly hardy. She rarely ate much, which was not due to fear of becoming plump, but from lack of appetite. It had been a never ending battle with her father, who thought it unhealthy to skip meals as a growing child. And perhaps he had been right. For whatever reason, Christine had been constantly plagued by one childhood sickness after another, and could barely step out into the rain without catching a cold. It caused her father undue amounts of grief, and he was always worrying about her health – which was perhaps the reason why he refused to acknowledge his own illness until it brought him to his deathbed. For weeks after, Christine herself displayed signs of unfortunate weakness and bad health, and Madame Giry had been afraid she had contracted the sickness from her father. She had not been expected to live. But it must have been a symptom of grief, because before long it left her, as did her nightmares where she called out for her father.

With the trials of childhood behind her, Christine seldom became sick. Madame Giry's stern instruction in ballet must have strengthened her in both body and mind; it was a rare occasion indeed when Christine would be unable to rehearse or perform due to being under the weather.

Now, as Christine sat in the room that Raoul had only recently vacated, she doubted if she had ever felt more ill in her life. Though she had lately watched the rain and let her mind wander, the drops trickling in miniature rivers down the panes had become an undulating movement like that of waves and caused her to become increasingly queasy. Rising from her seat by the window, she swayed dangerously as the room spun around her and she attempted to compensate for the undue motion. Staggering over to the pristinely made bed and falling haphazardly upon the silk covers, she closed her eyes and laid a hand over her forehead. No fever, from what she could tell, but she had never been very adept at reading her own temperature.

Though she felt as if a good rest would set her right in no time, and though it was very late in the evening, Christine could not settle her mind enough to slip into sleep. Something bothered her immensely about Raoul's words of working to make them both happy. What had he meant by that cryptic statement? Certainly he could not be speaking of marriage, after everything they had suffered through?

Granted, Christine remained considerably upset about the months she had spent being completely ignored within the estate of her fiancé, but as she had informed Raoul, she was willing to forgive. Holding grudges was not only severely unchristian behavior, but it also required too much energy. Christine was not willing to spend each and every day of her life feeling negatively about Raoul, her childhood sweetheart and friend if nothing else. And so forgiveness would come eventually. But forgiving did not necessarily entail forgetting. Their conflict was the past and nothing more, but to learn nothing from the situation would be a grave error.

Raoul seemed to believe everything could return to the way he had wished them to be. Unfortunately, Christine knew only too well how even the best intentions could go awry. Though he might have every intention of treating his fiancée differently the second time, if his undue jealousy and suspicion was a flaw in his nature, it would need more than good intentions to eradicate it. And if he required help, she would give it willingly, so that one day he could find a woman to share his life with. Besides, it was not that Christine refused to be a part of Raoul's life; it was only that she could not be the wife he wished her to be.

Not now. Not anymore.

Her decision was made even drearier by the prospect of not having any other candidate for a husband. While it was not chiefly important for her to be married within the year, Christine did not deceive herself. She knew that what she most wished for, what she most desired, was a family to call her own. Perhaps it was because her own mother and father were taken from her so early in life, but without family Christine felt her later years would be an empty imitation of a life. She appreciated all that Madame Giry and Meg provided her with – love, affection, company – but it was not the same as having a mother, a father, a husband, and, if she could be so bold as to hope, children. But now that she was believed to be dead by the whole of Paris, it would be impossible to reenter society in search of someone to share her dream with.

Her heart ached and tears squeezed from the corners of her closed eyes and trickled down her pale cheeks as she thought of the one man whom she could have married and spent the rest of her life with. Erik's character had not been perfected by any means, and though he had caused her countless hours of crying and misery when he forced her to choose between himself and the vicomte, now that he was dead she could not help but imagine their life as it could have been. In reality, though Christine had known Raoul since childhood and had daydreamed of becoming his wife as a young girl, she had truly fallen in love with Erik first. He had been there in her loneliness, and even though she had only known him as a celestial being, she had found herself harboring the most genuine love for her Angel of Music. Then Raoul de Chagny swept back into her life, throwing her emotions into a different light and vying for her love. Without Raoul to compromise her affection for him, without Raoul to force Erik to take drastic measures and bring the worst and most savage parts of their souls out of both men, Christine could have given herself to Erik without regret.

But Erik was dead. And unlike before, when she had merely read of it in the paper, Christine had witnessed the killing blow, had seen the blood pouring from his wound, had felt the pain and sorrow in his eyes as he crumpled to the floor and released his hold on life. Nevertheless, she could not help but entertain the ridiculous, illogical hope that somehow Erik had survived. Maybe, by some miracle, God had taken pity on him. Maybe her heart simply delighted in tormenting her, and her mind had not yet been able to dispel those foolish dreams.

Christine opened her chocolate eyes and stared at the ceiling of impeccably crisp whiteness, illuminated by the gas lamps on the walls. There was no comfort in this room. No character. No sun hinting of the dawn, painted painstakingly by hand. But so many memories floated throughout the room, lingering like a perfume from someone who had recently vacated it. And the memories were not precisely happy ones.

She could not stay here. She needed to get out. To leave. To retrace her steps back to her childhood, and find out where she had gone so utterly wrong. When had she become so weak, so dependent on the choices of others instead of her own opinions? Where had she lost her nerve and become content with being a puppet, a shell of a person, told what to feel, what to think, how to act? Perhaps if she could find that moment, that location, that point in time when she had given up herself she could discover a way to live again.

But travel required money, and that was something she really could not boast of having in large enough quantities to spend thriftlessly. As a singer she had been showered with gifts – jewelry, dresses, art, and other pretty things – and those could be sold. However, much of what she had been given had been left at the Opera Populaire, and the managers, being the parsimonious people they were, had likely recycled them as presents and bribes for their new diva. The riches she had as the fiancée of Raoul de Chagny were numerous and extravagant, as could be seen by merely looking at the size of her wardrobe and jewelry box, but not something she felt she had any claim to. They were more akin to costumes and baubles in a play she had starred in, not her property but simply loaned to her for the course of the production.

Her father had not been a pauper, despite his tendencies to journey across the countryside like a gypsy. He had been considerably well off in his early years, and had the funds to have developed an affinity for the traveling life. Try as she might, Christine could not recall an instance when they did not have the money to stay in an inn or eat three meals a day, though nothing about their habits could be called extravagant. When he died, Christine was too young to be worried with finances, but Madame Giry must have been appointed as manager of what money Christine had been left. Later in life, when she understood the concept of currency and inheritances better, Christine had always assumed any money must have been consumed in her care and teaching at the Opera Populaire.

Even if there was some amount of her inheritance left, Madame Giry had never mentioned it, leading Christine to believe she had exhausted her savings. However, she had never particularly inquired into it. Perhaps a visit to the Opera Populaire was in order, but of course only in the dark of the night when no one would see her entrance and departure.

And then only after she shook this uncomfortably sick feeling. Her head pounded, and the lamplight seemed to glare in her vision and make her eyes ache. She let her eyes flutter shut once more, diving into the cooling darkness behind her lids, exhausted from wracking her brain for a solution that would not come.

Tomorrow, she would tell Raoul that she would be leaving.

But tonight, she would dream of the man she had loved, and regret being unable to tell him before it was too late.

XXXXXXXXXX

By morning, the doctor still had not yet arrived home. Gabriel was still in an entirely foul mood. Erik was still, from all appearances, sleeping. And Antoinette was still extremely uncomfortable in clothes that were now two days old.

Antoinette did not consider herself to be a girl overly obsessed with her appearance, both physical and social. It had taken years of harsh scolding and punishments to convince young Antoinette to cease playing with the young servant boys. Frankly, her father had told her, it is not proper for ladies to play with young men. And her dresses were too expensive to be dragged through the mud and muck. Now, as she sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair before the fire in the sitting room, the morning sun pouring in through the windows and bouncing off of the clean wooden floors, Antoinette could almost hear her father berating her for her sorry state of dress. She wanted nothing more than a heated bath and a clean, crisp, bloodstain-free gown to change into. But that required leaving her patient unattended, and that was completely unacceptable as there was no one else to see to his needs if he woke.

Gabriel walked into the room and broke her from her reverie, his own clothing considerably wrinkled and his curly hair disheveled from what few hours he slept. He had already abandoned his coat somewhere during the time they had been waiting for the doctor, and he made a vain effort to straighten the crinkles and creases from his vest, running his hands along his stomach a few times before giving up. Clearing his throat to make his presence known, he walked to stand behind Antoinette's chair.

"Doctor Laurent has not yet arrived, mademoiselle," he reported once more, and his tone was flat as if he grew weary of delivering the same message.

"I know, Gabriel. You do not have to watch the door every moment. I am certain he will let us know when he gets here," Antoinette turned to smile indulgently over her shoulder.

"I realize you want to leave as quickly as possible, but standing at the entrance tapping your foot will not make him return any more quickly."

Gabriel chose to overlook her gentle jest, squaring his jaw.

"I know you must be hungry, mademoiselle," he stated, changing the subject efficiently from his own over eagerness to be rid of the man in the room beside them.

"If you would like, I can go find something for us to eat."

Antoinette was so shocked she turned as much as she could while remaining seated. Her eyebrows raised and her eyes wide in an imitation of fear, she said, "What, and leave me here, alone, with that man?"

She gestured in the direction of Erik's room, and Gabriel scowled down at her, unable to ignore such blatant prodding of his weak spot. But he clearly had not considered that finding breakfast would entail leaving his charge unattended with a possible madman, and he swiftly proposed an alternative.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs and find the madam of the house."

Returning to seriousness, Antoinette returned his frown and said, "No, Gabriel. I was merely joking. You do not have to bother her with watching me while you go out."

Folding his arms, Gabriel shook his head and replied, "No, I meant I could ask her if she has any food to spare. I am certain she would not begrudge us a crust of bread."

"Oh."

Antoinette considered for a moment the chilly reception she had received upon first meeting the doctor's wife, many years ago. Even then, the plump woman had not been particularly fond of Antoinette's habit of bringing strays in at any time of the day or night and dropping them in Monsieur Laurent's lap, despite the considerable payment she never neglected to tender afterward. She had little reason to believe her sentiments had changed in regards to the matter. Antoinette also had the distinct feeling that the Laurents' marriage was not one without it's share of turbulence, for whenever the doctor went up the narrow stairs, which only occurred when he retired to sleep, the raised voice of his wife echoed loudly even on the ground floor. And though Gabriel was not exactly the easiest of people to deal with at the moment, Antoinette had a fondness for him and did not have it in her heart to send him into the lioness's den.

She did not relish the thought of returning home to her father with two badly maimed men.

Rising and placing a tender hand on his forearm, which Gabriel stared at intently, Antoinette pleaded, "Oh no, you do not have to do that, Gabriel. Madam Laurent does not like to be disturbed. I am not very hungry, anyway."

Her stomach chose this moment to growl loudly, and completely audibly, and Gabriel's eyebrows lowered. He evidently did not believe a word of it, but did not pull away. For whatever reason, he merely sighed and nodded obediently.

Antoinette made a motion to remove her hand from the fabric of Gabriel's shirt, but before she could he stopped her.

Placing his hand over hers gently, Gabriel's voice was thick with some unknown emotion as he said, "I know you want to help him, but you need to take care of yourself as well."

When Antoinette quizzically raised her blue eyes to meet his, he blushed and removed her hand from his arm as politely as possible, averting his eyes through the whole process. He moved back a step and tugged at his vest, looking everywhere but at the woman before him. Running his fingers through his hair, which only served to make it more disheveled, Gabriel bowed, excused himself, and began to make a hasty retreat from the room.

He collided with the doctor in the doorway, bouncing off the portly man and back into the room in an almost comical manner. In a sad attempt to save face, Gabriel pretended to have decided to stay in the room at the last moment, and hovered about the door as Monsieur Laurent shouldered past.

The doctor glared at Gabriel and mumbled something unintelligible about young people these days. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin seemed to hang from his bones as if he had been slightly deflated. It was apparent from his sodden clothing that he had been out in the rain that night, because the skies had calmed in time for the sunrise to peek through the dispersing clouds. He removed his wide brimmed hat and threw it in the general direction of a table, though it missed by a considerable distance. Stumping over to sit in the chair Antoinette had recently vacated, Dr. Laurent kicked his shoes off and stretched his short legs toward the fire.

Only after he had settled himself did he address Antoinette. And even then, his voice was curt with exhaustion, and from his lack of introductory speech it was obvious he was still in a business state of mind, and not very happy.

"Did he live?"

Grinning from ear to ear despite the doctor's bluntness, Antoinette came to sit on a stool by the doctor's feet, her skirt flattened and bunched in odd places. She attempted to adjust them, but swiftly gave it up as hopeless and fixed the doctor with her charming smile that almost wiped the frown from his face. Almost.

"Oh, yes, Dr. Laurent! I know you said he would not make it, but he is awake, and he spoke to me! Or…" she paused to elaborate, "He _was _awake, and he _did _speak to me. He was resting when last I checked."

Even though it was a medical miracle of sorts, the doctor barely batted an eye. Either he had seen such spectacular recoveries before, or he lacked the energy to muster any emotion. It was most likely the latter, since he had been making his rounds the whole night and most of the evening before.

"Odd that he awoke so soon. Expected at least a few more days to pass, if he survived at all. Anyway, doesn't matter. Been wrong before."

Antoinette's spirit could not be dampened by his short manner, and she continued excitedly, placing a hand on his arm for emphasis.

"And he even took some water! He is still very weak, of course, but I have reason to believe we will not have to impose upon you for much longer. He has a strong will to survive, I think."

Shaking her hand from his arm and rubbing his gritty eyes with the heels of his palms, he muttered, "And is that your medical opinion? I think I shall be a better judge of that, my child. But better for me if it is true. Your father already sent someone to harass me on my rounds, and he knows you are here."

Antoinette's mouth went dry. She picked nervously at a fingernail and glanced toward the corner of the room, where Gabriel had let a quiet moan of despair pass his lips. He looked as if is collar had suddenly become too constricting, because he hooked a finger beneath it and tugged vigorously.

When she finally mustered the courage, Antoinette asked, "And what did my father's messenger have to say?"

Retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping at his shiny forehead, Dr. Laurent glowered at the nervous young woman.

"Well, he certainly wasn't very pleased with you leaving for the opera and never returning home. At first he had thought the boy," here he jerked a thumb toward Gabriel, "had kidnapped you and planned to return you for a reward. Your father has quite the imagination – and apparently not a great fondness for your manservant."

The groan of complete misery that came from the corner of the room was considerably more audible this time. The doctor spared him a glance that made it clear he was not willing to attend to another sick person.

Sharing Gabriel's sentiments, Antoinette inched forward, to the point where she could have easily rested her elbows on the older man's knees.

"Yes, but did he say that he was sending someone to fetch us? We cannot leave, monsieur, until Erik is well enough…"

"So his name is Erik, eh?" Dr. Laurent said gruffly. "Well, considering I did not enlighten your father as to Erik's existence, and your intention to bring him home to your family, I do not think it is the wisest course of action to leave that as a surprise."

Gabriel, who now had a different focus for his nervous energies, growled as he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, "The man continues to insist that he does not remember his home, or his family, or anything other than his name. Which, I must point out, we cannot be certain he is being truthful about."

Dr. Laurent did not turn to eye Gabriel, but instead gazed intently into the fire. At first Antoinette wondered if he had heard what Gabriel said, but the way his eyes flickered back and forth made it evident that he was thinking deeply about something. When he finally spoke, Antoinette had already braced herself for whatever would be said.

"Antoinette, you know I have a tender spot for you in my heart, despite my best efforts to the contrary," the doctor said, only half joking. "But I cannot advise taking the man into your home when we know nothing of him. To be perfectly honest, the entire night I worried about your safety, and I would have made it home earlier to check up on you had it not been for the de Chagny incident…"

Perking up visibly at the name, Antoinette inquired in a voice laced with too much interest, "The de Chagny incident?"

"Yes," Dr. Laurent paused to sneeze emphatically and wipe at his nose before continuing. "I had come to check on the progress of the boy – Roland or Ronald or something-"

"Raoul," Antoinette supplied too promptly, and the doctor eyed her suspiciously.

"Yes," he said through narrowed eyes, "Raoul de Chagny. He had been ill, and I went to check on his progress, standing in that infernal rain for what seemed like hours, only to be turned away in a very brusque manner. Needless to say, I tried again, and was sent off again. By that point the coachman had rudely left me and I had to walk back home through the downpour. Likely caught a cold, too."

Sniffling and scrubbing at his red nose with his handkerchief again, Dr. Laurent raised his bushy brows inquisitively and asked, "Why are you so interested in it?"

Waving a hand and attempting to appear nonchalant, Antoinette adopted what she hoped was a neutral face and explained, "Oh, it was nothing. I was simply curious as to why you were out all night."

Dr. Laurent appeared to accept the explanation, though grudgingly, and continued.

"What I was saying, though, is that I think perhaps you should not bring the man home. Not all men are good men, my child."

Though she was still consumed by the mention of Raoul, the man who had intrigued her, befriended her, stolen a kiss from her, and left her, Antoinette pulled herself back to the topic of conversation.

"I appreciate your concern, doctor, but Erik has nowhere else to go. I refuse to throw him out onto the street. And you surely can understand my concern when he is in such a delicate state."

The doctor nervously shifted his considerable weight in the chair, and it creaked noisily.

"I would keep him here, you understand, but I need the room for my other patients – you never know what horrific injury you will be faced with next in this city… But to be honest, something about the man gives me the shivers. Why would a gentleman be stabbed in the Opera Populaire? It's simply unheard of. Perhaps he called it upon himself."

"My sentiments exactly," Gabriel chimed in smugly.

"All that I ask," Dr. Laurent continued, correctly reading the resolve on Antoinette's face, "is that you be careful. It would not hurt to have a guard outside his room. Or at least do not approach him without a man with you in case…problems arise."

Rising to her feet with a rustle of fabric, Antoinette looked down at the bloodstains on the rich silk – Erik's blood. The blood that she had seen pooled about his body, a certain sign of imminent death. Despite the warnings of Dr. Laurent, ignoring the misgivings of Gabriel, Antoinette refused to believe that Erik could possibly repay her kindness with violence or treachery. Though she was, admittedly, rather naïve and inexperienced in the ways of the world, she could not comprehend the paranoia that seemed to have gripped the two men in the room.

Straightening to her full height, which required most people to gaze down at her, Antoinette forced a smile at both the doctor and her servant.

"I understand," she said tightly, brushing golden curls from her shoulders, "And I will remove Erik from your home as soon as possible. Thank you for your kindness. I will send your payment."

Overlooking the doctor's shocked expression and the manner in which his mouth gaped like a freshly caught fish, Antoinette spun on her heel and made her way to the door. Gliding past Gabriel, she called over her shoulder.

"Gabriel, bring the carriage to the front. We are leaving."

And before anyone could stop her, she had knocked lightly on Erik's door and entered without waiting for an answer, closing it firmly behind her.

She glanced across the room and spotted Erik's sleeping figure, his chest gently rising and falling with regular breathing. Sunlight poured into the room, fighting off the residual gloom of the previous night's rain and giving welcome warmth. Waiting a moment to both see if the man would awaken to her presence and if Gabriel and the doctor would follow her into the room, Antoinette finally made her way quietly toward the bedside.

Seating herself daintily on the edge of the bed, she could not help but watch the slumbering man with interest. A beam of sunlight fell across his face, and Antoinette wondered briefly how he could sleep so deeply in such luminance. The blankets were twisted about him, revealing the pale skin of his stomach above the waist of his trousers and part of the bandages that enveloped him. His jet black hair was mussed with tossing in his sleep, and some stray locks had fallen into his eyes. Antoinette could not help herself. She reached out and pushed the unruly strands back from his forehead, trailing her fingers down his left cheek, and when he responded to her touch by leaning into her palm, she blushed furiously, but did not move away.

She was not stupid. She knew whoever he dreamed of was not her, but another woman. Her suspicions were validated when his lips parted and he sighed a name.

"_Christine…_"

Smiling sadly, jealous of a woman whom she had never met, Antoinette cupped his cheek and ran a thumb over his cheekbone.

"Monsieur…you must wake up…"

Her soft voice must not have reached him through his dream, and he merely stirred slightly and sighed once more. She licked dry lips and tried again, leaning closer to be heard, her blonde curls falling around her face like a curtain and her heart pounding unnaturally fast.

"Erik…wake up."

At the sound of his name, his golden eyes snapped open, pupils constricting to adjust to the light flowing from the window beside him. He blinked numbly for a few seconds before realizing the woman above him was not the one he expected, and he turned his head away, efficiently removing himself from her cupped hand. There was a nervous tightness to the muscles in his face, and he seemed embarrassed, as if he somehow knew he had spoken in his sleep.

"Wh-what time is it? How long have I slept?" he murmured awkwardly, trying to form words with a tongue that seemed unable to keep pace with his mind.

"It is just after dawn. You slept through the night, which is fortunate, because you needed your rest. Do you feel any better today, monsieur?" Antoinette asked tonelessly, refusing to use his first name, keeping professional distance between them, and more than partially because she was secretly offended by his reaction to her.

Suddenly his whole body tensed, and his hand flew to rest on the right side of his face. Just as quickly as it happened, he relaxed. He was not, however, content to lie prone while Antoinette hovered above him. Bracing himself with the palms of both hands, Erik pushed against the bed and began to shift himself into a seated position, closing his eyes with pain or effort of coordinating tired muscles. Antoinette bit back the urge to reprimand him for rushing his recuperation, but as she fully intended to ask him to exert himself further, she merely helped prop the pillows against the headboard. He leaned back on them and nodded his appreciation, his breathing more labored just from the act of sitting up.

Gesturing with his long fingers toward the pitcher that Antoinette had left in the room, he asked through deep breaths, "Would you mind? I would help myself, but I do not know if I can manage at the moment."

Antoinette bit her lower lip in shame, both at her previous actions and what she would ask of Erik now, but turned and poured a glass of water and handed it to the man before her. As he struggled to steady his tremulous hand, as his throat moved slowly as he drank, as he paused periodically to gasp between gulps, Antoinette had no idea how to tell the man that though he could barely drink on his own he needed to not only make his way to the front door, but endure the long carriage ride home.

When he had downed the entire glass of water, he twisted to set his glass back upon the table and bit back a yelp of pain, releasing his grip on the cup. Antoinette stooped and nimbly caught the falling glass before it could shatter on the floor, and when she straightened herself she almost let the cup drop once more. Erik had found the end of the linen bandage and was already in the process of unwinding it from his torso.

"Ah! No, you need to leave that on!"

Her fingers where trying in vain to pry his from the bandage, and she was all but sitting in his lap in her attempt to block his arm from moving. His voice was gentle, as if he was explaining something to a child, but his fingers did not release their tenacious grip on the wrapping.

"The bandage is too tight. I can hardly breathe, and if the doctor did his work correctly, the stitches do not require this pressure to keep them together."

Antoinette decided now was not the moment to mention she had been the one to change his bandages. And she had apparently not done it to his liking.

When the young blonde resumed her place at the edge of the bed, Erik resumed the delicate process of liberating his abused chest from its wrappings. Antoinette averted her eyes, not so much for Erik's comfort but for her own. She had already seen his bare upper body, both when the doctor had stitched his wound and when she had applied fresh bandages. But he had been unconscious both times, and now that he was moving about, it seemed wrong to stare.

Soon he had the bandage wadded up in his hands, and he tossed it weakly to the end of the bed. Inhaling deeply and leaning back into the pillows, he closed his eyes and smiled momentarily, evidently enjoying the ability to take a full breath. Then his keen amber eyes were trained on his wound and his fingers gingerly inspected the doctor's stitches. The sutures were neat, and the area around the wound clean, but dark bruising blossomed from the cut and across his abdomen in a purplish and irregular blob that stood out all the more next to his pale skin. Antoinette could not help but watch with interest and a fair bit of trepidation as Erik passed judgment on the medical technique, as if the injury was on someone else's body and he was charged with grading Monsieur Laurent on his work. For a moment Antoinette wondered if he intended to remove the sutures and do the job properly, but she relaxed when he nodded his silent approval.

Before he could move on to scrutinize the gash on his arm, Antoinette decided to enlighten him to her plan as tactfully as possible.

"The carriage is out front, monsieur. Dr. Laurent has decided that you can now be transferred from your room. You will be coming home with me."

It was not a lie, by any means, but it obviously left out a few key obstacles surrounding the situation. And though she had delivered her lines in a genuine manner, Erik was sharper than she had expected.

He smiled ruefully and threw back the sheets, revealing his well-fitted trousers and bare feet. She shifted further away from him, partly to place some distance between them and partly because she was becoming increasingly warm in the cheeks.

Meeting her eyes squarely, he stated, "So I have worn out my welcome. Surprising, really, that it lasted as long as this."

Antoinette shook her head vehemently and frowned, "No, monsieur, that is not the case at all. The doctor decided you were well enough to be moved to a more comfortable location."

Moving painstakingly slow so as to not pull at the sutures, Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed and positioned himself to sit beside Antoinette, but still maintained a respectful distance between them.

When he turned to her and smiled again, he showed white teeth, but it held no warmth.

"Do not try to coddle my feelings. The doctor did not bother to come in and examine my progress, and therefore can have no notion of how well or otherwise I happen to be. He is frightened of me. Understandable, as none of you have any idea if I am a man to trust."

There was a businesslike tone to his voice, but beneath it a hint of sad resignation. It tugged at Antoinette's heart, and she had to resist reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his arm. But there was a wall of sorts that he had placed between them, and she did not know if she could overcome it.

"I believe you are a man to trust."

Erik looked at her, and she felt as if he was staring through her, as if he knew every thought she was thinking, as if he could read her as easily as one reads a novel or poem. She squirmed beneath his gaze like a butterfly pinned down for examination. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but somehow strangely exciting, because for once he was looking at her as a person and not merely a nurse.

"I know you do," he finally said, averting his eyes to the floor and allowing Antoinette to breathe.

She realized her heart was racing. What had he seen with his uncompromising gaze? She doubted she had ever been more intrigued by a man in her life, but perhaps that was due to the mystery that cloaked Erik. Who was he? How did he come to be in such a situation? With time, perhaps she could come to understand him, to help him ease that emotional pain she sensed beneath his cold exterior.

He broke her daydream with a shockingly practical question.

"Where are my shoes?"

Galvanized into action, Antoinette leaped from the bed and bustled to retrieve his black socks and shoes. When she made her way back over to the bed, Erik attempted to take the articles from her, but she would not allow him, and instead knelt gracefully and began placing them on his feet.

"I could…you do not have to…" he said, discomfort evident in his voice at having a woman kneeling before him and dressing him like a servant.

Antoinette ignored him, but filled the silence that followed with explanations, "I am sorry, but the rest of your clothing was completely ruined. I am sure we can find something at my home for you to wear, but until then, I am sure Gabriel will not mind lending you his coat."

Actually, she believed Gabriel would mind very much, but would consent after some coaxing. The derisive snort that she heard from above her head let her know that Erik thought much of the same. Finishing her task, Antoinette stood and held out her delicate hand to Erik.

"If you need help standing, allow me. And you can lean your weight on my shoulder, if you would like me to assist you on our way to the carriage."

One side of Erik's mouth curled up in a smirk, and he stood on his own, though slowly and with considerable wincing. Antoinette repressed the urge to roll her eyes at his rashness, but quickly stepped in when he took his first step and stumbled. Drawing his arm across her shoulders, she persuaded him to lean on her. She tried not to think of his state of undress. He mumbled something that could have been taken as thanks, and with her guidance made it to the front door without much trouble. The day was bright, but the cold nipped at them as Antoinette opened the door with her free hand, hinting at the arrival of fall. Gabriel sat on his perch at the front of the carriage, where he had been waiting impatiently. Upon seeing Antoinette's burden, he jumped nimbly from his seat and climbed the stairs two at a time, arriving at her side and attempting to take her place. Antoinette stopped him with a raised hand, and gestured at his wrinkled coat.

"Gabriel, would you mind lending Erik your coat? He should not be out in the cold."

Gabriel tensed, staring at the man draped over Antoinette. Erik had begun to shiver, gooseflesh rising on his bare skin, and he was considerably paler with the effort of walking, even with aid. When Gabriel had stood scowling long enough, Antoinette snapped.

"Gabriel!"

He reluctantly shucked off his coat and draped it over Erik, who clutched it closed with one hand and eyed the younger man in an appraising manner. Gabriel returned the look with a hostile narrowness to his eyes, but took up Antoinette's place with Erik's arm over his shoulders. Antoinette glided down the stairs ahead of them and opened the carriage door, waiting for the men to hobble awkwardly down the stairs. By the time Erik had entered the coach and seated himself on the velvet covered seat, he was completely drained. He struggled into the coat, which fit well enough if it was a little short in the sleeve, and leaned his head back, his face pinched with exertion and pain. Antoinette scrambled into the coach after him and closed the door on Gabriel, who had been in the middle of growling some kind of halfhearted complaint about the plan to bring Erik home.

Sitting opposite Erik, Antoinette felt the coach lurch into motion as Gabriel urged the horses forward. Vainly she hoped he would attempt to make the ride bearable for their passenger, even if they were obviously not fast friends. She pulled the curtains halfway over the windows, throwing them into relative darkness and blocking the bright light from bothering Erik.

When Erik found his voice and opened his eyes, bringing his head forward once more, his cheeks had gained some of their color back.

"So," he said, crossing his arms and stretching his long legs out as much as he could in the cramped space, "Where, may I ask, is your home?"

Trying valiantly to pull stray curls back, Antoinette answered tersely through the hair pins between her lips, "The outskirts of Paris. About an hour's ride, perhaps more."

Undaunted by the struggle it was for the young woman to speak at the moment, Erik plowed ahead, "A family home, or your husband's estate?"

Antoinette nearly stabbed herself with a pin in her shock.

"Oh, I am not married. I live with my father."

Erik clicked his tongue in pity, his voice smooth as silk, "A young woman as beautiful as yourself, and unmarried? A shame, indeed."

Despite herself, Antoinette's cheeks flushed. As she normally did when embarrassed, she spoke too much to try to draw attention away from her, which of course worked for the contrary.

"Well, my mother died bringing me into this world, and my father has always been extremely judgmental of any man I take a liking to…"

Erik smiled knowingly and crossed his legs loosely, the picture of sophisticated relaxation, though he was conspicuously missing a few articles of clothing. Even without a shirt or vest, with a coat that did not fit him properly, with his hair no longer smoothly slicked back, there was something undeniably attractive to the man. His golden eyes missed nothing, and his voice…well, needless to say, Antoinette was finding it difficult to concentrate on the conversation when he looked at her like that and used his velvety voice.

"One cannot fault your father. There are too many untrustworthy young men in this city."

For the first time, Antoinette looked at the man before her and tried to place his age. There was an experience to his eyes, hinting at an older man, but his face was unwrinkled and his hair without a peppering of gray. Deciding it extremely rude to outright inquire into his age, she resolved to concern herself with it later. Perhaps she could ask one of the maids, who had more experience with men and could give her an accurate opinion.

"You have clearly never met my father," she said with a light chuckle, "He transcends healthy suspicion. The only men allowed in our home besides my father is the chef and Gabriel. The chef has a limp and a crooked eye, and Gabriel is only tolerated because he tends to the hounds and stays mostly to the servants' quarters."

Erik arched a dark eyebrow, "But your father allows you to attend the opera?"

Shifting nervously in the silence that followed, Antoinette wrung her hands in the fabric of her skirt.

"Actually, I have to spend the whole day warming him to the idea whenever I wish to go, and he only allows me to if I have my escort – and even then grudgingly. Although now I doubt if I shall ever be allowed to leave the house again. I slipped away from my escort, and when I found you lying there…well, I left her at the Opera. She has probably already told my father all there is to know about my consorting with Raoul."

Sighing, she placed her chin in her hand and appeared lost in thought – which was a blessing for Erik, because she did not notice his eyes widen and his whole body tense for an instant. However, he recovered speedily and forced himself to relax.

"Raoul? A love interest, if I may be so bold as to ask?" Erik inquired, managing to slip some playful jealousy into his tone.

Shaking her head and making her curls bounce, Antoinette replied heatedly, "_No_. He was a scoundrel who misled me and left with another woman, without apology or explanation."

When she saw the grin spreading on Erik's face, she apologized for her outburst, touching her fingertips to her lips and knitting her brow.

"I did not mean to say that. What I meant was he is a man whom I misjudged. I believed him to be a gentleman."

"Do not think you have to act contrite," Erik laughed, his golden eyes shining with what Antoinette briefly thought to be relief. "You spoke candidly, and there is nothing immoral about stating the truth."

Antoinette smiled genuinely, a ray of sun peeking past the curtains and lighting her face. Her heart skipped a beat as Erik returned her smile, and for a moment she thought there was a faint glow to his amber eyes in the relative darkness.

On one hand, she was increasingly uneasy with the effortless manner in which he seemed to be winning her affections. On the other hand, she was quite certain that it was her girlish fantasies of a dark stranger coming to take her away that gave her a partiality toward him. Resolving to temper her feelings, she returned her features to neutrality, folded her hands in her lap, and changed the subject to the imminent future.

"If I may speak the truth again, I suppose I should inform you that my father will not be particularly pleased with your arrival. I have not precisely warned him of our intentions to house and care for you."

"I gathered," he said flatly, rubbing his hands briskly together for warmth. "You can always suggest that I be kenneled with the hounds. That way I will not be anywhere near his beautiful daughter, if that is his fear."

"Oh, no," Antoinette said, laughter breaking up her words, "If there is anything he is protective of, other than myself, it is his hounds. He breeds and sells them as a hobby, you see, and they live better than most Parisians do."

She was only exaggerating slightly.

"Of course. How foolish of me. Well, perhaps I can charm him into accepting me into his home for a time," he mused aloud, choosing to ignore Antoinette's doubtful sigh.

Leaning back once more and closing his eyes to rest, he murmured, "And if that does not sway him, at least we both will have made a valiant effort."

And soon after, Erik had fallen silent, his chin resting on his chest and his arms crossed. Antoinette peeked beneath the fringe of bangs that had tumbled across his face to be certain. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted in sleep. Warmth spread through Antoinette, beginning from her chest and radiating outward.

While it could have merely been exhaustion taking its toll, she liked to believe Erik finally trusted her sufficiently to overcome his guarded nature and rest in her presence. Without his unnerving eyes to contend with, Antoinette let her eyes roam freely across his sleeping figure. It was a shame, really, that he could not remember much more than his name, but she could not help but be glad. She was ashamed to admit it, but Erik's faulty memory was the only thing that kept him tied to her, and she was far too intrigued by him to not wish for more time to unravel his mystery.

However, Antoinette knew, like all the other men she had met, that after the mystique and obscurity was stripped from him Erik would be just another disappointment – someone who would not hear her cry for help, for deliverance from her sheltered life, where she was suffocated and could not grow. Yes, one day Erik would leave her, and that day likely would come sooner than she hoped.

For now, it was enough to have met him, and to be with him for a moment in his life – to collide, touch for an instant, and then go their separate ways.

But always to dream of what could have been.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Meg had arrived back at the Opera Populaire, the streetlights were the only illumination, casting an eerie glow over the edifice and exaggerating the ornately carved architecture and sculptures that decorated it. She had not bothered calling a carriage upon leaving the home of the Persian, both because they were scarce at such hours of the night and because she did not have money left to hire one. By the time she arrived she had been harassed by numerous tramps on the streets and was physically and mentally exhausted. The long walk had not only tempered her fury, but had left her too deadened to the world to do much else than stumble into her dormitory room, shuck her wet clothing, pull on her nightgown, and collapse into her narrow bed. It had been a wonder she had not woken any of the other girls with her heavy footsteps and groans of fatigue, but apparently they had also had quite the taxing day with rehearsals. Almost precisely when her body had hit the mattress, she had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep that she would have been content to stay in forever.

However, sunrise brought the rustling movements of the other ballerinas rising and clothing themselves, chattering in a tone that they likely thought quiet but that gained force when it came from dozens of mouths. Meg woke, still groggy and in desperate need of a bath after being doused with rain and forced to trudge through mud the previous night. But there was no time for such frivolities. Leaping from her bed in a whirlwind of energy, she located some clothing that might or might not be entirely fresh, but donned them anyway in her haste. A few of the girls who remained in the room raised eyebrows when they saw that she was not wearing her practice skirts, but funneled out of the area without question in their eagerness to be on time to practice and thus avoid punishment.

Meg had every intention to follow them. But she did not have practice in mind.

Haphazardly running a brush through her hair and yanking out a few knots with winces of pain, she tied it back with a ribbon while attempting to put on her shoes, which was a feat in itself and almost resulted in stumbling out one of the windows and falling to her doom. Undaunted, she bustled out of the room and down the spiral stairs, pushing a straggling girl or two aside rudely in her rush. And even with all the rush and commotion, she was still unable to arrive early enough to confront her mother before she had initiated practice.

By the time Meg came panting onto the stage, Madame Giry was yelling heartily at some ballerinas, who looked as wide eyed as frightened deer and jumped away almost as swiftly. She wore her customary black uniform, and naturally had her shining black cane in her hand, all the better to slam onto the floor and punctuate her remarks. Luckily, her back was turned to Meg at the moment, her long braided hair swinging like an angry cat's tail as she stalked up and down beside the rows of dancers.

Knowing her mother did not take kindly to interruptions, Meg resolved to wait for an opening between her barked orders in which to draw her aside. She waited as patiently and silently as possible, but all her anger and frustration of the night before had swept over her in full force, and any moment wasted seemed like an offense against her friendship and near sisterhood with Christine. Apparently, her nervous shifting from one foot to the other did not go unnoticed by her mother, as if she could sense her child's footsteps even with the dancing of dozens of other girls to cloak them.

Turning with a glint in her eye, Madame Giry abandoned her post and stormed over, her black skirt swaying as vigorously as her hair. Without any greeting whatsoever, she plucked at Meg's skirt with her bony fingers as her lips formed a stern line.

"Where is your practice skirt? If you have neglected to have it cleaned, perhaps being made to launder it yourself will help you remember. Or have you forgotten your duties today and simply chosen to take a holiday?"

The sarcasm in her voice hinted that if either of those options was the answer to her improper attire, then it would be best to discover a better reason, and quickly.

Meg's initial reaction was to apologize and hang her head, which would mean only a slight berating as opposed to a full tirade, but she fought that instinct back. Barely.

Taking her mother by the elbow and pulling her off stage so that the ballerinas could not hear – though there was little chance of that over their own pounding feet an the discordant notes that someone was hashing out on the piano – Meg chose to overlook the completely affronted stare that Madame Giry shot down her nose and toward her daughter. She was undoubtedly unused to being manhandled, much less ignored. Wrenching her arm from Meg's grip, she shook her cane mere inches from her daughter's nose, and wisely Meg retreated a few steps.

"I will not have you dragging me about in such a manner! Where are your manners? One would think you were raised by barbarians and wolves!" Madame Giry added the last, as if one without the other would not be expressive or offensive enough.

Eyeing the ballerinas nervously, some of whom had begun to look in their direction and were paying more mind to the scene offstage than their piteous dancing, Meg hissed, "Please…lower your voice. I need to speak with you about Christine's situation."

Smoothing her skirts vigorously, as if she had been lately thrown over Meg's shoulder and dragged off stage instead of directed gently, Madame Giry's eyes wandered back to her students even as she addressed her daughter.

"This is hardly the time. If you cannot tell, I am conducting practice, and these girls need it badly. You can enlighten me about your late night escapade when I am through. And then you can report back here for _your _instruction."

"Escapade? How did you…" Meg paused, and then realized it was unnecessary to ask. Her mother constantly knew the happenings about the Opera Populaire, as if she believed it to be her calling to monitor each and every person in the building.

In fact, upon retrospection, Madame Giry had seemed constantly aware of the recent occurrences surrounding Christine, even though Meg had little contact or conversation with her mother outside of ballet practice. Also, she had not seemed surprised at Meg's insinuation that Christine Daae was alive. All of Paris knew and believed her to be dead, due to the newspapers. And all the inhabitants of the Opera Populaire had been speaking of her tragic murder, since the ballet rats had discovered the vicomte, insane and raving, and the remains of Christine's bloodied gown.

But never her mother. Madame Giry had on no account, from what Meg could recall, expressed any signs of sorrow for her charge's death. When Meg had been beside herself with grief, her mother had not comforted her. Before, she had attributed it to her stern and bristly ways, but now, Meg could not be sure.

Madame Giry always had been on close terms with the Opera Ghost – his messenger, his usher, his secret keeper. Perhaps she was still.

Or had been…because the monster was dead by the hand of a man he once trusted.

Wasn't he?

Shaking her head to dispel thoughts of the Phantom of the Opera alive, in good health, and updating her mother on his dastardly deeds through letters, Meg recalled herself to the situation a few moments too late.

Apparently Meg's unfinished sentence and the time that had passed afterward was something of concern for Madame Giry. Her mother had fixed her with a look that meant she either thought her daughter ill or deranged.

Frustration rising in her, Meg said with more courage than she felt, "No, mother. We need to speak now. The Phantom of the Opera may be dead, but from all appearances Raoul de Chagny is just as great a tyrant, and we have delivered Christine into his waiting claws."

Puffing out her chest in righteous anger, Madame Giry said scathingly, "Do not speak of 'we'. _I _have done nothing of the sort. But do not think that I am blind to what you have been up to. I believe I have told you to give Nadir Kahn a wide berth, and what do you do? Concoct a ridiculous 'rescue' plan with him that for all intents and purposes failed miserably," she said, throwing her braid over her shoulder and glowering at her daughter.

Blushing in embarrassment and indignation at being deemed so incompetent, Meg retorted in a slight pout, as if pleading to have some recognition for a deed well done, "Well, at least that _monster _is dead."

At her daughter's remark, Madame Giry's tone changed entirely.

Worry etching her features, she said, "Unfortunately for you, my dear, that is not so."

Meg's initial reaction was relieved laughter, not because she believed her mother's assumption, but because it let her know Madame Giry, bane of the ballet rats, did not know all that she thought she did.

Obviously confused by Meg's utter nonchalance at such a momentous revelation, Madame Giry did not join her laughter.

"I would not discount my comment so easily," Madame Giry warned, her lips turning downward, "Erik is not dead."

Wincing, Meg pulled a face and admonished, "Mother, do not say his name as if you were such close comrades. It pains me to hear it. The man was a demon."

In deadly seriousness Madame Giry's fingers wrapped about her daughter's arm to emphasize her words, which were punctuated by pauses, either to let Meg absorb the notion of what fate could await her or in fear to admit their truth.

"My daughter, you have no idea how correct you are. The man _is _a demon. And you have angered him. Pray…_pray_ he does not act upon that anger…because if he does, there is no force in heaven that will keep him from his retribution."

Madame Giry's eyes shone with unshed tears, and unless Meg imagined it, her lip quivered. Her mother was always the picture of control and confidence.

It frightened Meg more than her words had.

Just as quickly as it had happened, her mother had wiped her eyes, straightened her skirt compulsively, and turned her back to her daughter. She strode back to her ballet students, moving like a black cloud across the stage, and did not look at Meg again.

It was minutes before Meg could cease her trembling and force her numb limbs to drag herself off the stage and back to her dormitory to change. With time she convinced herself that her mother was overreacting, her suspicious ways and incredible imagination getting the better of her judgment.

Her mother was not jesting when she said she demanded practice from her daughter. And she refused to acknowledge the conversation they had previously held, as if admitting it had taken place would somehow mean her worst fears would come to fruition. It was only after long hours of intense and uncomfortably silent performance that Meg was released to relax in the dancers' lounges and engage in the gossiping and laughing that always helped settle her nerves.

But the talk that day was all of the mysterious nature of the puddle of blood discovered in the entrance hall on the night of the opening gala. In a miracle of grand proportions, the managers had succeeded in keeping the whole thing a secret, telling everyone that it was stage blood and keeping the stagehand that was made to clean it ostracized from anyone that would lend an ear to his tale. However, they could only suppress gossip for a short while, and the boy made his appearance that afternoon, going from lounge to dormitory telling his opinion on the matter and spreading the news like a wildfire in dry brush.

"Complete shit, is what it is. Excuse the language, mademoiselles. But I know stage blood, and that wasn't it. It was the _real thing_. And _no_ _body_ there for it to have come from. If you ask me, it was the Phantom of the Opera…I know they said they killed him, but that was just a cheap tactic to keep everyone feeling safe. But you can't kill a ghost, and he's letting us know that he's here for good."

As he delivered his opinion in its gruesome and frightening seriousness, he girls squealed and gasped, and some fainted from the shock of it all. But none was more disturbed by the news than Meg, who did not openly display her fear, but most certainly henceforth did not traverse the dark halls of the Opera Populaire alone.

It seemed, perhaps, that her mother was not incorrect in her assumptions thus far, which made her fear of revenge unfortunately appear more credible.

And though Meg was frightened for her own life, she could not cease worrying for the fate of Christine, who was in as much danger as ever, if not more. With Raoul refusing to loosen his grip on Christine and her previous captor wronged and seeking vengeance, she would be caught in the middle of the battlefield when the confrontation occurred.

If anything, Meg's plot with Raoul de Chagny and Nadir Kahn had only heated the monster's blood and prepared him for violence.

Her mother was right. The Phantom of the Opera was alive, and the moment he recovered and rallied himself, there would be dreadful consequences for their actions against him.

* * *

**Bit of a long chapter, if I do say so myself. But I wanted to move things along. For everyone who has been asking, it won't take too long for Erik to recover, because let's be honest, the moment he regains his strength he's going to be about his work...whether he is fully healed or not. But that's Erik, the crazy guy who in the beginning of the story was on the Opera roof during a storm (which earned me a lot of grief haha). He's extreme like that. Please let me know what you think about this chapter. And don't neglect the poor one that came before it and thus will not get as much attention just because of birth order. We all know the youngest is the favorite...(I suppose I should put a disclaimer on how that was not meant to offend anyone who is the youngest child. But I'm too tired. And I'm a middle child.) Toodles.**


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